


« 



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<■'//< o 3 . fi'. 

AT HA LIE, 

on, 

A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA: 


“A WINTER’S TALE.” 


By “FILIA.” 


AUTHOR OF “AGNES GRAHAM,” “LUCIA DARE,” ETC. ETC. 


Jf *4. A- V 


“We deal with progress, and not flight. 
Through baffling senses passionate 
Fancies as restless — with a freight 
Of knowledge cumbersome enough 
To sink your ship when waves grow rough, 
Though meant for ballast in the hold — 

I find, ’mid dangers manifold, 

The good bark answers to the helm 
Where faith sits.” 

Browning. 




> » 
l > ) 

1 , ’ 

PHILADELPHIA: 
CLAXTON, REMSEN, AND HAFFELFINGER. 

NEW ORLEANS: J. A. GRESHAM. 

1872 . 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
CLAXTON, REMSEN, AND HAFFELFINGrER, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

COLLINS. PRINTER, 705 JAYNE STREET. 


/ 


TO 

“XAEirFA.” 


What shall I bring, my poet sweet? 
Crowns for her head 1 
The world has spread 
Its brightest laurels at her feet. 

The muse has touched her tongue ; 
Hers have been joys elysian ; 

And love’s divinest vision 
Her tuneful lips have sung 1* 


What, then, can I seek out, 
Since all that man deems rare, 
And rates beyond compare, 
Compasses her about? 


What can I say, 0 poet sweet, 
As this poor work of mine 
I lay before thy shrine ? 
From far the sibyl greet ! 

Lake St. Joseph, Tsxas Parish, La. 


FILIA. 


* < 


‘ In creed.” 


PREFACE. 


V illeggiatura — country diversions or residence. 

The story of Lettice Tilney is founded upon fact. 

My own uncle had a small steamboat, which he used in 
hunting expeditions before the war, as I describe in the 
case of the little Louis d’Or. The adventures of General 
Yon Lingard are neither impossible nor improbable in our 
forests. 

This is all I have to say by way of explanation or pre- 
face. My work must take its chances. 


FILIA. 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


CHAPTER I. 

The Wilderness, Dec. 20, 18 — . 
My Dear Annis : 

Here we are, all safely arrived and 
distributed to our respective apart- 
ments in this long, rambling house 
of Mrs. Dulany’s. The Christmas 
party comprises, first, of course, our 
hostess ; but you have seen Mrs. 
Dulany, so I sha’n’t waste time in 
describing her. You know the 
slight, delicate person, the soft, 
calm manner, the vibrating voice, 
the spirituelle countenance, the 
large brown eyes with their steady 
glance, the bits of white hands, so 
active in all good works, so skilful 
on piano, tambour, or easel ; you re- 
call the quick sympathy, the genial 
hospitality which characterizes Mrs. 
Dulany. 

We reached here late in the even- 
ing. We heard the murmur of 
voices in the drawing-room as we 
hurried past it, but we were con- 
ducted immediately to our apart- 
ment by our considerate hostess, 
where our suppers were served to 
us, and, after relaxing our weary 
limbs by a delightful bath, we just 
took one peep from the windows of 
our dressing-room, which look out 
upon the lake (it was so lovely in 
the bright moonlight), and then we 
gladly crept into bed and slept the 


dreamless sleep of exhausted tra- 
vellers. 

We were awakened about eight 
A.M. the morning after by the 
sound of Julie’s voice, saying, “Your 
coffee, please, Miss Emma ; Mr. 
Arthur, your coffee, please.” 

I sprang bolt upright in bed, 
wide awake in an instant. Arthur 
opened one sleepy eye. With diffi- 
culty I made him comprehend that 
it was late, and time to take his 
m atut inal coffee if he wanted any. 
Arthur has come here with vast 
plans as to shooting, hunting, boat- 
ing, &c. &c., but all of these gene- 
rally reputed amusements of men 
requiring early rising to enable the 
devotee to attain any success in 
their practice, I fear Arthur’s ducks 
and deer and fish will remain in 
primeval, undisturbed bliss, as my 
charming but procrastinating hus- 
band does hate early rising and 
all its concomitants. However, he 
grumbled very little at this time, 
but, sitting up in bed, took his 
coffee, and then lay back and went 
to sleep again. 

We breakfast enfamille at eleven, 
or, if we choose, privately in our 
dressing-rooms. Arthur selected 
the latter mode of existence on 
arrival, and accordingly lounges in 
usually every day just as we all draw 
up around the lunch-table at two 


6 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


o’clock P.M. He brightened up 
perceptibly when he received, on 
the first day, the merry salutations 
of Sophie and Ellen Fortier, and 
also recognized the fair Athalie 
Deslondes, who is here, for a won- 
der, without the hete , her dreadful 
husband. These constitute our fe- 
male department at present. Ar- 
thur, Conrad, and Louis Stillman, 
and a Prussian traveller, a Colonel 
Yon L in gq rd. a decoree from Sol- 
ferino and Magenta, make up the 
covey of men. 

Old Mr. Foster aids Mrs. Du- 
lany in doing the honors of the 
establishment. Mrs. D. does not 
live of course in the splendid style 
she did when you and I visited her 
before the war, in that forty-roomed 
palace of hers on the river, but still 
it is very pleasant. We have every- 
thing needful for comfort, even for 
luxury, but of plainer material than 
formerly. Of books, musical in- 
struments, boats, dogs, guns, &c. 
&c., there is plenty, and there is 
even built out a new wing contain- 
ing a good, new billiard-table ; and 
up in a sort of tower overlooking 
this most beautiful of lakes, she has 
fitted up a delightful studio, in 
which she spends a part of every 
day. This is the only room in 
which we do not feel at liberty to 
intrude at pleasure. We never go 
there unless she invites us, which 
she does sometimes, not so often, 
however, as we could wish. 

It is a delightful spot, filled with 
all the rubbish that artists love. 
It is lighted by one large window, 
or sort of dome in the mausard 
roof. The light can be controlled, 
heightened or lessened at will, by 
touching certain pulleys and weights 
which draw or fling open the blinds. 
It is carpeted, has a deep fireplace 


and a recess at one end, concealed 
by damask curtains, behind which 
one finds a luxurious couch and 
sofas, and washstand for ablutions 
after painting. The view of the 
lake is superb from a little fantastic 
balcony, which projects before the 
one door of entrance into this para- 
dise. Mrs. Dulany is just now 
painting this view. This lake is 
large, about twenty miles long by 
six miles in width. It is finely 
wooded to the margin, and has one 
pretty island, with an elevated point 
in its midst like a cone. Mrs. 
Dulany says it is an Indian mound. 
She has built a little pavilion upon 
it, and we are to go over some 
morning to take luncheon there — 
some warm, sunny day, such as we 
so often have in this delicious cli- 
mate even in the midst of winter. 
The lake abounds in water-fowl in 
winter, and in terrapins and alli- 
gators in summer. The steamboats 
come into the lake once a week out 
of the Red River, bringing freight 
and mails from New Orleans. There 
are few persons living around here. 
Mrs. Dulany owns a wide stretch 
of country, and her neighbors are 
rare and distant. This is only one 
of her estates — you know she was 
a Durochet, and a great heiress — 
but this is her favorite winter home. 
It is always healthy. There is no 
malaria here even in summer. The 
land is not near so fertile as in the 
swamp proper, but it is quite as level, 
and very rich in grasses and forest- 
trees. Nothing could be handsomer, 
I think, than the trees here, with 
their graceful draperies of vines. 
The ground in the open glades is 
carpeted with the yellow jasmine, 
and shrubs of wild azalea and ver- 
benas abound. I don’t think it is 
so splendid with lilies as the lower 


A SO UTHERN VILLE G GIA TUBA. 


1 


plateau of the Mississippi valley, 
but it is very beautiful. A day or 
so since, Arthur went in a skiff 
completely out of the lake into the 
river which feeds it. As he returned 
in the glow of the sunset, shooting 
his skiff through the narrow neck of 
the river where it enters the lake, the 
whole panorama of the lake — with 
the single islet like a gem on its 
broad bosom, the sky with its 
splendid glow, and the enormous 
trees which girdle the lake as in a 
setting of mosaic (for the leaves are 
of every tint and hue still, russet 
and green, and gold and red, and 
purple and brown) — was spread out 
before him. In the enthusiasm of 
the moment, Arthur sprang upright 
in the boat, at the risk of upsetting 
it, took off his hat, waved it over 
his head, and cheered loudly. You 
know it takes a good deal to move 
Arthur, he is generally so unex- 
citable and seemingly indifferent. 
Col. Yon Lingard was with him, 
and told us of Arthur’s fit of 
ecstasy, else we should never have 
known anything about it. I shall 
keep you au courant to our exist- 
ence. The company has divided 
itself already into groups of “ natu- 
ral selection.” 

Conrad and Louis Stillman pair 
off generally with the pretty For- 
tiers ; old Mr. Foster is my devoted. 
Dear old man 1 His hair is white as 
snow, but he will tell those dreadful 
long anecdotes of his hunting and 
fishing expeditions. However, Mrs. 
Dulany is a watchful hostess. She 
never permits anybody to be bored 
or victimized in her house. What 
great tact she has, to be sure ! She 
swoops down like a hawk in the 
most unhoped-for and most unex- 
pected manner, just at the very 
minute that one begins to succumb 


to the terrors of satiety or discom- 
fort, and carries one off into her 
higher atmosphere of perpetual 
peace and fulness of vitality. I 
think I am indebted to Mr. Foster’s 
known proclivities to anec -dotage 
for many priceless moments of rich 
enjoyment, and of the attention of 
this wondrously gifted woman. Ar- 
thur lounges around in the sweetest 
temper and most good-humored way 
possible, lazily considerate and kind 
to everybody. Col. Yon Lingard, 
a “Yon” of the purest blood, is a 
pattern card of his compatriots. He 
seems much inclined to abate his 
grandeur even so low as to lie at 
the fairy feet of Athalie Deslondes. 
As for Athalie, she is just as way- 
ward, just as coquettish, just as 
graceful, just as beautiful as she 
always was ! Takes all this homage 
as a matter of sovereign right, with 
a cool banalite that must be aggra- 
vating to a man with any sensibility. 
You know what she has been ^nce 
her marriage — a star shining dan- 
gerously on the waves of society, 
which, might toss and surge at will 
below her without disturbing her 
equanimity. She is an exasperating 
woman ! No one believes Athalie 
has any heart, or any use for one, 
except to supply physical blood to 
her full, cool veins. But I know 
better, Annis. Athalie Deslondes 
is capable of deep affection, true 
friendship, and of intense passions. 
But she has marked out a line of 
life for herself, and she intends to 
follow it out if woman can. She 
has got the loveliest toilettes right 
from Paris ; everything cl merveille. 
She is bewilderingly beautiful en 
grande tenue every day at dinner. 
You ought to see her. 

Good-by. Write every day to 
your sister, Emma Lalande. 


8 


A SOUTHERN VTLLE G GIA TURA. 


P. S. — We are expecting Miss 
Clementina Dandridge and her 
nephew “ Benny,” or Mr. Benjamin 
Dandridge I suppose we’ll have to 
call him, now that he is six foot two 
in height, wears a moustache, and 
has become a hadji, having trav- 
elled all over thelnown earth, Mecca 
included. Benny used to be a little 
pest, and Miss Clementina spoiled 
and adored him in the most aggra- 
vating way. Athalie shrugs her 
white shoulders whenever she speaks 
of Miss Clemmy. The truth is, 
Athalie, who likes a respectable 
flirtation, even while she is rigid in 
regard to les convenances, does not 
care to have Miss Clemmy’s sharp 
eyes in her near neighborhood, espe- 
cially as Miss C. is a cousin of old 
Deslondes, and — This Prussian, 
my dear, is extremely good-looking, 
decidedly agreeable, and evidently 
epris de ses beaux yeux. Poor 
Athalie ! Clemmy will find her out 
the first day, “ I bet” as the Yankees 
say. 

Arthur smokes about fifteen cigars 
per diem. He is too lazy for any- 
thing. He is languidly attentive to 
Athalie, but you know I am never 
jealous. The truth is, I know I suit 
Arthur exactly, and the other women 
fatigue him in a very little while. 
Louis Stillman is stupider than ever. 
He has a genius for silence. I don’t 
think he utters ten words a day, 
or ever opens his mouth except to 
put something in it. Yet he is 
said to have been a good soldier 
during the war — a favorite scout of 
Beauregard’s — I suppose because he 
is dumb and impassive as an Indian 
chief. They tell several anecdotes 
of his daring and cunning. He 
went into the enemy’s camp often 
in disguise. Ellen Fortier seems 
to like him. She says the first time 


she ever saw him he was led by her 
father’s house with his hands tied 
together, and fastened by a rope to 
a Federal soldier’s saddle. As the 
enemy passed through Tennessee, 
they had caught Louis on a foraging 
expedition. Conrad is as handsome 
and vain as ever. 

I hear a bustle in the hall ; the 
steamboat has just landed. Miss 
Clemmy is come, and “Mr. Benja- 
min.” One good thing for me will 
be, that I sha’n’t have so much of 
old Daddy Foster, because he has 
an ancient gossiping love for Miss 
Clemmy, and he’ll keep all his long- 
est and most interesting stories for 
her delectation ; upon which I claim 
your felicitations. Adieu. Je vous 
embr.asse mille, millefois. 


CHAPTER II. 

Mrs. Dulany’s guests gathered 
together rather earlier than was their 
custom, in the drawing-room, before 
dinner, on the day after the dis- 
patch of Emma Lalande’s letter to 
her sister. They were all curious 
to see the additions to their little 
circle. Arthur Lalande lounged 
slowly in after everybody else had 
appeared, and threw himself lan- 
guidly into a fauteuil, conveniently 
located near a sofa occupied at the 
moment by Mrs. Deslondes. Taking 
her mother-of-pearl fan coolly out of 
her hand, and complaining of the 
heat of the room after his long fa- 
tigue of two games of billiards with 
Col. Yon Lingard, Arthur began to 
fan himself as well as the fair 
Athalie, uttering a few commonplace 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG G1A TURA. 


9 


words of compliment upon her ex- 
quisite toilette. Athalie wore a full 
dress of black lace over lilac satin, 
with gold and purple heartsease 
scattered in her hair, and a cluster 
in her bodice. 

She was very decollete; her white 
shoulders gleamed like polished mar- 
ble in the soft lamplight. Her beau- 
tiful rounded arms were bare to the 
shoulder. She had a single gold 
band around each fine wrist, and 
one resplendent ring on her left 
hand. She wore no other ornament ; 
not a jewel broke with its glitter the 
soft coloring of her dress and her 
burnished, waving hair. Athalie 
was of that rare type of creole 
beauty, a blonde with dark brown 
eyes and bright golden hair. The 
tintings of her face were perfect, 
only a very delicate pink upon her 
cheeks, while her lips glowed with 
carnation. Her eyebrows — not 
arched, but a straight pencil-line 
across a full, low, rounded fore- 
head — furnished a'n inexhaustible 
theme for innumerable young poets 
of the city, who patronized the cor 
ners of the Sunday Picayune and 
Times newspapers. Indeed, never 
was any woman, since the days of 
Helen, more besung in all sorts of 
metres, both in French and English, 
than this cold, beautiful Athalie. 
She was acknowledged to be the 
beauty, par excellence , of New Or- 
leans, and a very central star in the 
beau monde. Yet, in spite of the 
ordinary mechancete of society, 
Athalie had, so far, escaped all 
jealousies, all envyings, all maligni- 
ties, by her imperturbable sweetness 
of disposition, and her cool impas- 
siveness of manner, which was yet 
so courteous to all men. So, while 
the world knew that her marriage 
with old Monsieur Deslondes had 


been entirely one of convenances , 
yet no living man could boast that 
he had ever encountered more than 
*a ray of kindliness from Athalie’s 
soft, calm eyes. They met every- 
body’s with a frank, level gaze of 
affability, but not a glance had ever 
spoken to any man of any central 
fire or warmth in the soul which 
vivified the lovely form. But a 
physiologist would have said there 
met in her two diverse nationalities 
and temperaments — one lymphatic, 
the other passionate. She looked 
like a Danish Eric, but her eyes 
were those of a Spaniard. She was 
so habituated to homage, that she 
received it as a matter of course. 
She was never specially grateful for 
anybody’s admiration. She had been 
surfeited with it. She knew she was 
beautiful. She smiled now, with a 
slight arching of her brows, at Ar- 
thur’s affected fatigue. She did not 
trouble herself to open her lips to 
reply to him, and he did not seem 
to expect that she would ; for, say- 
ing, “ You are a most delightful 
woman, Mrs. Deslondes ; the only 
woman I know in this world who 
appreciates silence,” Arthur settled 
himself more comfortably in his chair 
before he continued, with his eyes 
half shut, 

“ Now let’s be quiet, and wait for 
the entree! Do you know, Mrs. 
Deslondes, that word ‘entree, 1 grande 
entree , always makes me think of 
Dan Rice’s circus ? — in the opening, 
you know, when all the performers 
prance in on resplendent steeds, 
dressed up in Persian or Turkish 
costumes. I wonder what character 
Miss Clem, means to take !” 

“Any other would be more agree- 
able than her own, I expect, Mr. 
Lalande,” said the beauty, with a 
curve of her red lips, which were 


10 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


opened as slightly as possible to give 
utterance to her words. 

“Ah 1 well — I like a little acid 
occasionally in life, either in salads- 
or society. It wakes one up. That’s 
the reason I married my wife. She 
is as tart and pungent at times as 
cayenne pepper. When one is im- 
perturbably amiable one’s self, one 
really appreciates a little temper at 
times — that sort of a thing prevents 
satiety. I do dislike a woman who 
is always smiling, or a lake that is 
always smooth like this one. Tou- 
jours perdrix exhausts me directly. 
I should blow my brains out in dis- 
gust if my wife did not vary her 
words,” said Arthur. 

Mrs. Deslondes laughed a low, 
rippling laugh, as she, glanced at 
Arthur’s comically serious face, and 
then she looked towards his wife, 
who just at that moment was stand- 
ing near a portfolio of engravings 
open on a tall easel. Mrs. Lalande 
held one of the pictures off at a 
short distance in one hand, while 
she pointed with her fan in the other 
hand at some portion of the picture, 
speaking earnestly and rapidly trf 
Col. Yon Lingard, who stood by hef 
side, and who was smiling as if muclr 
amused at something the witty little 
woman was saying. Emma Lalande 
was a tiny bit of a woman, with a 
clear brown skin, a brilliant flushing 
color, and black eyes that danced and 
glittered like diamonds. She was 
very slight in figure, but not too 
thin for her height, though her 
whole aspect suggested the thought 
of a fire-fly — she was so little, so 
dark, and such effervescing flashes 
of brilliancy in her face. Her mo- 
tions were quick and agile as a 
squirrel’s, rather deft and vivacious 
than graceful. She gesticulated a 
good deal in conversation, but she 


was not exhaustively emotional. 
Col. Yon Lingard, a handsome man 
of thirty-five or forty, stood bending 
near the little woman, listening, with 
a slight smile, to her evidently 
amusing observations ; but occa- 
sionally his eyes stole, as if invol- 
untarily, to the sofa where Athalie 
Deslondes sat in all the splendor of 
her beauty. She seemed uncon- 
scious of his glances of admiration. 
She leaned back against the satin 
cushions, a marvel of nature. God 
never created a fairer type of wo- 
manhood than a blonde crecle. 
That’s what Col. Yon Lingard 
thought, and his eyes said so. Louis 
Stillman sat by the chair of Ellen 
Fortier, while his brother Conrad, 
leaning over the ottoman of Sophie, 
managed at the same time to catch 
at intervals a glimpse, in the oppo- 
site mirror, of his own handsome 
face and figure. Near the fireplace 
stood Mrs. Dulany, the hostess, and 
her uncle, Mr. Foster. Mrs. Du- 
lany’s face and figure were attractive 
still, though she was past the bloom 
'of youth. She wore a gown of 
black velvet trimmed with rich lace. 
Her hair was still black, but had 
one gray streak just in front. It 
was folded smoothly around her head, 
and partly covered with lappets of 
white lace, caught up with stars of 
diamonds. She had been a widow 
for four years. There were small 
lines about her quiet mouth, which 
told of grief; markings about the 
eyes, which spoke of tears ; and a 
slight line or two in the brow, that 
showed the continuous action of 
deep thought. She had the coun- 
tenance of a student and a thinker. 
Her uncle, Mr. Foster, was tall and 
well made, his figure wonderfully 
straight for a man of seventy years. 
His hair and beard were snowy- 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


11 


white, but not scant ; his com- 
plexion ruddy, much embrowned by 
sun and wind. He had been a 
mighty hunter in his day, and still 
ventured out on a fine day on a 
deer-hunt. Bear-hunting he had to 
give up — it was sport too violent 
for his rheumatic limbs. He spent 
much time now in fishing and in 
bird-shooting — milder sports which 
conformed better with his old age. 
His shot was still true, his hand 
steady, though he had to use spec- 
tacles in order to see his game. He 
was very kindly, even genial, in his 
character, full of gallantry towards 
women, and his manner showed ten- 
der reverence and affection for his 
niece. His only fault as a com- 
panion was that he would some- 
times tell long and prosy anecdotes 
of his past prowess, and showed 
something of the garrulity of age. 
While the party were thus grouped, 
the door was suddenly flung open, 
and Miss Clementina Dandridge en- 
tered the room, leaning upon the 
arm of her nephew. Miss “Clemmy” 
was a woman of sixty. She was 
tall ; she had a hooked nose, and a 
wide mouth, with rather thick lips. 
Her upper teeth, false now, pro- 
jected in a singular mode out of her 
mouth ; and when she smiled, she 
showed jdie whole gum. The lower 
teeth were small, white, and even ; 
her chin long and pointed ; her eyes 
of a keen gray — she wore glasses 
with gold rims ; her eyebrows were 
black and straight; her hair still 
black by aid of art, and she wore it 
elaborately coiffed, with blacky lace 
and pink roses. She was slightly 
lame, and carried an ebony cane 
with a gold head in her left hand. 
She did not lean upon her cane, 
however, just now, but upon the arm 
of her nephew. Miss Clementina 


was dressed in a common moire 
silk, flounced with black lace. Her 
neck and bust and arms were still 
full and handsome, and she displayed 
them in all the plenitude of their 
charms. Her neck was slightly 
veiled with a tulle chemisette, but 
her arms were naked to far above 
the elbow. She had falls of deep 
lace in her short sleeves. Magnifi- 
cent bracelets gleamed on her wrists 
over the tops of her white gloves. 
Miss “ Clemmy’s ” diamonds were 
so splendid that they made even 
Athalie Deslondes’ calm heart 
slightly covetous for an instant. For 
Athalie did not know that there 
was a standing joke in New Orleans 
society about Miss “ Clemmy’s” 
diamonds. She went to Paris every 
alternate year, and always returned 
thence with a new set of brilliants, 
which she sported extensively for 
a while, and then the splendid dia- 
monds would disappear. People 
were malicious enough to say that 
“ it was because paste would lose 
lustre in time.” But Miss Clemmy 
was known to be rich enough to 
wear real jewels, and all such friend- 
ly observations were made sotto voce. 

Miss Clemmy had another passion 
besides her weakness for diamonds — 
scandal, and her nephew “Bobby.” 
She liked musical boxes, and she 
had her rooms filled with every form 
of musical box that Genevan in- 
genuity could frame. She had big 
boxes and little boxes, snuff-boxes 
that played one tune, and little birds 
that hopped out of automaton tulips 
and lilies, and sung several tunes ; 
and lastly, she had purchased a three 
thousand dollar orchestrion, which 
was wound up afid set going when- 
ever she received her friends, which 
she did en grande tenue every Sun- 
day evening. Being a Roman 


12 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


Catholic, Miss Clemmy entertained 
every Sunday as a religious duty. 
“ Benny” stood the orchestrion on 
two of these occasions after his re- 
turn to America, and then he pre- 
vailed upon his aunt to allow it to 
be removed out of the parlor into 
a distant apartment, whence the 
sounds came modified and softened, 
so much that it did not put an end 
any longer to conversation. “ Ben- 
ny” disliked mechanical music. He 
was too good a musician himself to 
like it. But Miss Clemmy was in- 
corrigible about music-boxes. Benny 
had to give in to his aunt’s tastes. 
Indeed, he was very good to the old 
woman — devoted to her in spite of 
all her eccentricities. “ Benny” was 
a plain-looking man, with fine dark 
eyes. He led his aunt up to Mrs. 
Dulany, was duly welcomed, and as 
he turned away from his hostess, his 
countenance flushed with pleasure, 
a sudden smile illuminated his face, 
transforming it literally by a brief 
radiance. 

“Little Emma Grevenbergl ” he 
exclaimed, extending both hands to 
Mrs. Lalande. 

Emma laughed, her mischievous 
elfish laugh, as she replied, 

“Teasing Benny Dandridge 1” 
Then she gave him one little claw 
to shake. Benny took it in both 
of his, and kissed it with empresse- 
ment. Emma presented him to 
Arthur. 

“My husband, Mr. Dandridge. 
My old playfellow and — ” 

“And victim,” interpolated Ben- 
ny,. shaking hands with Arthur. 
“ My dear sir, from my ancient 
experiences, I really don’t know 
whether to congratulate or condole 
with you upon your connection with 
my playmate. She tormented me 
so, seven years ago, that my aunt 


sent me abroad in order to protect 
me from her tyranny and machina- 
tions ; for I adored her, and, was 
reduced to despair a hundred times 
a day by her cruelty.” 

“ Yes,” said Arthur, languidly, 
“Emma has told me. I like it; I 
like my wife to be a little whimsical, 
it amuses me.” 

Benny shrugged his shoulders in 
real French style, “ chacun d son 
goutT He laughed, and then he 
went back to his aunt and Mrs. 
Dulany. 

Dinnerwasannounced. Mr. Foster 
took in Miss Clemmy, Mrs. Dulany 
summoned Arthur to her side, leav- 
ing Emma to Benny’s care; while 
the others paired off as usual, the 
Fortiers with the Stillmans, and 
Athalie, slowly rising from her sofa, 
took Col. Yon Lingard’s proposed 
arm. 

Col. Yon Lingard said something 
in a low voice as they went into the 
adjoining dining-room, evidently 
complimentary, for his eye gleamed 
and his manner was impressive. For 
one instant Athalie’s fair cheek 
flushed as he spoke, but it paled as 
quickly, and she replied to him in 
her customary sweet, even tones, * 
which sounded always cold and pure 
as the notes of a dove. 


CHAPTER III. 

Emma Lalande’s prophecies were 
verified. Miss Clemmy soon began 
to peer curiously through her gold 
spectacles at Athalie whenever Col. 
Yon Lingard approached her, which 
happened to be pretty frequent in 
the course of every day. But even 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIATURA. 


13 


Miss Clementina’s sharp eyes failed 
to discover a flaw in the cold courtesy 
of Athalie’s manner, or change in 
her voice when she conversed with 
the gallant Prussian. Athalie sat 
like a Buddhist idol on the throne 
of her beauty, and received his hom- 
age, as that of all other men, with 
quietly folded hands. 

Her maid, who slept in an ante- 
chamber of Athalie’s apartment, 
might have told, if she had been able 
to keep awake long enough, how 
Athalie spent hour after hour sleep- 
lessly sitting up at her writing-table, 
often leaning her weary, beautiful 
head on her crossed arms and weep- 
ing silently, for Athalie dared not 
even indulge in the restlessness of 
walking to and fro in her own room, 
for fear of having her footsteps over- 
heard and commented upon. Athalie 
knew her own slavery, she had sold 
herself at the will of the aunt who 
had taken her an orphan child from 
the death-bed of her parents, and 
this aunt had trained her up care- 
fully to “make a good marriage.” 
At sixteen Athalie had been married 
to the richest man she knew — a man 
over sixty, hard, cold, imperious ; 
a man absorbed in business and in 
adding to his fortune. He wasted 
but little time or interest upon his 
fair young wife. His evenings were 
spent in a club-room, where he went 
to pick up items for the next day’s 
speculations, and his sole excitement 
was in drinking a certain quantity 
of brandy and water, which he took 
freely every night, so that he scarcely 
ever was entirely sober when he 
retired to his wife’s apartments. 
Athalie had grown to consider these 
habits as a matter of such ordinary 
occurrence, she expected nothing 
else ; and she endured the desagre- 
mens of her position with a sort of 


dogged coldness that was slowly 
ossifying all that was tender and 
womanly in her soul. Her husband 
gave her a fine house. He let her 
spend money on clothes ; he bought 
her jewels. It was a good adver- 
tisement of his financial success. 
She was his wife, and he chose to 
have “ his wife” live and appear in 
a certain style of opulence. But he 
had no sympathy with the young 
Athalie, and after the first flush of 
triumphant possession of the much 
famed beauty had passed away, he 
had no particular love for her. Any 
other woman would have answered 
his purposes just as well as she. 
He never allowed her to spend a 
dollar according to her own tastes, 
without accounting to him for it. 
Books, music, &c. &c. he con- 
sidered as vain and useless baubles, 
upon which he did not wish his 
money to be wasted. He did not 
like to see a woman read. He con- 
sidered it a waste of time. A 
woman should look after her house- 
keeping, watch her servauts, have 
fine clothes to go out in occasionally, 
and fine furniture in her parlors, 
should give a stately dinner-party 
on proper occasions, and strictly 
subordinate her life in every re- 
spect to that of her husband, and 
should exist only in and through 
him. He did not value Athalie so 
very much, though he liked to hear 
men say at the opera, “ The most 
beautiful woman in the house is Mrs. 
Deslondes.” But Athalie had failed 
to give him children, and he con- 
sidered that a serious failure on her 
part. A woman was regarded in 
his eyes a good deal in the same 
point of view as he thought of his 
brood-mares. It was rare for him 
to allow Athalie to go from home, 
and her present escape from his 


14 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


fatiguing society sprang from a sud- 
den business necessity which com- 
pelled him to go on to New York 
for a time, and so he permitted 
Athalie to pay her long-promised 
visit to Mrs. Dulany. He knew 
there would be a party of guests, 
and that his cousin Miss Clementina 
Dandridge was to be there to look 
after his wife ! So Athalie found 
herself a petted inmate of Mrs. Du- 
lany’s hospitable mansion, and was 
‘thrown intimately into the society of 
the most agreeable man she had ever 
known in her whole life ; and this 
man, she saw by a thousand petty 
cares and attentions, was beginning 
to live only for her careless words 
and herfainter smiles. Col. Yon Lin- 
gard was a gentleman who respected 
women, and, above all, the guest of 
Mrs. Dulany, where he had been 
himself received with such frank 
hospitality. He resolved nearly 
every day that he would cut short 
his visit and hasten from the danger- 
ous presence of Athalie Deslondes, 
but she had never recognized his 
smothered emotions in any way. 
She seemed perfectly unconscious of 
being the object of any attentions 
from him, and he persuaded himself 
that as he alone woul.d suffer, it did 
no harm to any one for him to linger 
still in this enchanted atmosphere. 
It would end very soon; only a few 
weeks of dreaming in a life that had 
been somewhat arid of sensations. 
So he stayed on. 

Miss Clementina renewed her own 
long-standing flirtation with old Mr. 
Foster, but she never lost sight of 
Athalie. Sometimes Athalie was so 
provoked at seeing how she was 
watched, that she was almost tempted, 
by the natural perversity of woman, 
to risk everything, and “ to co- 
quette just a little” with the enam- 


ored Colonel, “ just to spite Cousin 
Clernmy.” But Athalie did not, 
chiefly because, for the first time in 
her life, she felt it would be highly 
dangerous for her to yield one inch 
in this “ affaire” “ Because,” said 
she to herself in those long hours 
of silent weeping at night — “ be- 
cause this man is too attractive to 
me ; I shall love him if I am not 
prudent.” So she began to shrink 
from the petits soins of Col. Yon 
Lingard, and she devoted her- 
self as much as she could to Mrs. 
Dulany and to Benny Dandridge. 
Benny was not deceived or cajoled 
by Athalie’s sudden impulse of 
cousinly affection ; but he was very 
willing for Athalie to make use of 
him if it suited her to do so. Benny 
Dandridge was just the best-natured 
fellow in the world — the most con- 
venient sort of a man to have in any 
country-house. He was full of so- 
cial resources, and always in a 
merry humor with the world and 
with himself. He retained much of 
the frankness and abandon of his 
childhood. He was never shy, nor 
troubled with self-consciousness or 
mauvaise honte; neither was he ob- 
trusive nor officious ; indeed, he 
never thought about himself long 
enough to be vain or self-important. 
Everybody liked Benny Dandridge, 
though sometimes they laughed at 
his affectation of sentimentality. 
Miss Clementina adored him. Stern 
to all others, she was wax in Benny’s 
hands. He could turn and mould 
her at his will. Benny’s face was 
rather dull in repose, but he had the 
charm of a bright resplendent smile, 
which fairly irradiated his plain fea- 
tures with instantaneous light. Few 
people could resist Benny’s smile. 

Benny found, upon reconnoissance 
of his present position, that he was 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


15 


left in an unsentimental solitude, 
which was not agreeable. TlieHortier 
girls were occupied with the Still- 
mans. Sweet Ellen had no eyes 
except for the silent Louis ; and So- 
phie, who was very fat and very 
pretty, shook her rosy cheeks and 
rather truly stout sides only at the 
sparse witticisms of the Adonis 
Conrad. Benny was reduced, for 
social companionship, to Athalie 
and Emma. He liked Athalie well 
enough, but she was his cousin’s 
wife, and rather under his protec- 
torate for the nonce ; and then she 
came as near to boring him as such 
a pretty woman could do. She was 
too immobile and unemotional — 
there was nothing sympathetic in 
her for Benny. Nobody knew what 
a sharp pang Benny had felt, when 
he heard, while he was in Egypt, 
through Miss Clemmy’s letters, of 
the marriage of “ little Emma Gre- 
venberg.” He had never met any- 
body so bright and quick as Emma. 
They had been neighbors’ children 
together in the country, and Benny 
bad fully expected, from early in- 
fancy, to marry Emma himself “ after 
he was grown up and when they 
parted in tears, but not in silence — 
when Benny was sent off to school, 
for Benny roared aloud in boisterous 
grief, and Emma shrieked and wrung 
her tiny bits of hands in demon- 
strative despair, they each wore a 
tortoise-shell ring, which they had 
exchanged with many vows of eter- 
nal love and unchanging constancy. 
Benny had manufactured the rings 
himself from a bit of terrapin-shell 
with his own pocket-knife. Benny 
still had his ring. He looked it up 
now out of an old dispatch-box he 
had travelled with, and hung it 
sentimentally upon his watch-chain. 


He had some curiosity to see if Emma 
would notice it. It had her initials 
carved rudely upon it ; and Benny 
also had an immense E. G., with an 
anchor above it, tattooed on his 
arm in dark blue — one of the silly 
effects of his childish amour. It was 
a week after Benny’s arrival that he 
got out this old ring. Emma did 
not notice it, but Arthur did. They 
had all been out boating on the lake, 
and were now gathered on the long 
veranda, in the warm evening sun- 
light. Emma was sitting on the top 
step of the staircaseleading down into 
the yard, looking out on the broad 
lake, and the green lawn studded with 
trees which sloped gently to the 
margin of the water. Arthur, look- 
ing at the dying sun, suddenly 
asked Benny the hour of sunset. 
Benny good-naturedly drew his 
watch out of his pocket and handed 
it over to Arthur, who was holding 
his own watch in one hand to com- 
pare it with Benny’s, Arthur lan- 
guidly reached out his hand to 
receive the watch. Benny had not 
extended his arm far enough, and 
between them the watch dropped 
on the floor with a crash. Emma, in 
her quick way, bent back, picked up 
the watch, and handed it to her 
husband; saying, half reproachfully, 
“ Arthur ! you are too indolent ! 
See ! you have broken the pretty 
watch between you, haven’t you ?” 

Arthur examined the watch care- 
fully. “ No, Emma, it is not broken ; 
but this old ring is. Is it anything 
Egyptian or cabalistic, Benny ? a 
ring of Amasis, or with talismanic 
properties ? What are all these 
hieroglyphics ?” 

Arthur turned the ring over and 
over. It was cracked on one side 
by the fall. 


16 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA T U RA . 


“Emma, look here! What are 
those letters ? They look like Gothic 
or ‘ Runic.’ ” 

Emma leaned back against her 
husband’s knee, and took the ring 
in her hand. She recognized it — 
the blood flashed to her face. 
Benny’s became crimson, too. 

Emma put the ring back into her 
husband’s hands. 

“ I am no Champollion, Arthur, 
and take no interest in antediluvian 
things. I used to like beetles and 
scorpions, and things Jhatthe Egyp- 
tians worshipped, when I was a 
child; but I don’t like childish 
things now. They are absurd 1” 

Benny sighed audibly, took back 
his watch and souvenir from Ar- 
thur’s hands. But he continued to 
wear it ; and sometimes it worried 
Emma to see him hold and play with 
the old ring when he was talkiug 
with her. 

One morning Arthur came in to 
breakfast — quite an unusual circum- 
stance for him. He was evidently 
much discomposed. “ Benny,” he 
said, “look here! I don’t mind 
your giving my wife bouquets ; lots 
of fellows do. But I always tell 
them what flowers I dislike, because 
Emma has a way of sticking them 
under my nose that requires me to 
be particular about it. Now, I can’t 
bear cape jasmine, and you sent 
her that bouquet that came from 
New Orleans full of jasmine, this 
morning, and when I woke up, there 
they were all scattered around my 
head, over my pillow, and I am half 
poisoned. I tell you, Benny, you 
must confine yourself to camellias, 
heliotropes, and violets. Strong- 
scented flowers just kill me ! Mrs. 
Dulany, please make my coffee extra 
strong this morning, will you ?” 

Arthur ran his hand through his 


fair hair, and leaned back in his 
chair, looking reproachfully at 
Benny. 

Athalie laughed, and that started 
everybody else off into general 
mirthfulness. Benny laughed, too, 
with the rest, though his cheek 
flamed up, and he apologized to 
Emma, by saying, 

“ I sent you cape jasmine be- 
cause, when you were a child, you 
were fond of that flower.” 

Emma answered rather shortly, 
“ Thank you ; as I told you, I have 
changed a good deal in my tastes 
since I was a child. Col. Yon 
Lingard, may I trouble you for that 
toast ? Here, Arthur, let me butter 
your toast while it is hot.” 

Arthur submitted to be waited on 
by his wife ; ate the toast which she 
had held in her little fingers with- 
out the slightest emotion. What 
wouldn’t Benny have given for the 
crumbs from that rich man’s feast ! 
But he did not get any. Emma 
spread her husband’s toast, broke 
his egg, stirred his coffee, and tasted 
it to see if it was all right, exactly 
as if she was attending to a spoiled 
child, without noticing Benny at all. 
It was trying, though very respect- 
able and highly moral, Benny 
thought. He had a sort of lichenous 
nature — it was indispensable to him 
to attach himself to some one, and 
he liked the sympathy of women; 
men so often hurt his susceptible 
and rather effeminate soul. 

Benny Dandridge had lived so 
long in Paris, too, that he had lost 
some of his American ideas of mo- 
rality, and had acquired too much 
of the philosophy and religion of the 
Quartier Latin. He did not mean 
exactly to interfere with Emma’s do- 
mestic happiness, but he had always 
liked her better than he even knew 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


n 


himself, and he did wish she would 
at least recognize his constancy and 
fidelity — traits not common, Benny 
thought justly, among men. He 
was too good-natured to hate Ar- 
thur ; indeed, he rather liked him, 
personally, but he did not like the 
proper monopoly of Emma’s time, 
attention, and heart, which her hus- 
band claimed as a matter of course*. 
Benny had some vague ideas of an 
eternal sentimental devotion to his 
faithless ladylove. At any rate, 
his vanity was more concerned in 
making Emma feel and acknowledge 
that he did love her, than his affec- 
tions were just now. If Emma had 
only said, “ Benny, I know you did 
and do love me, and I have been the 
ungrateful one — forgive me,” Benny 
would have been perfectly satisfied, 
and would have turned his devotions 
to one of the Fortier girls. But it 
was really dreadful to be shut up in a 
country-house, in the middle of win- 
ter, with five charming women, and to 
be entirely deprived of any romantic 
sensations, oranythinglike an adven- 
ture. No 1 Benny could not endure 
it. If Emma ignored him as a lover, 
she should recognize at least a vic- 
tim. Arthur was good-humoredly 
oblivious or contemptuous of any 
petits soins paid by other men to his 
pretty, sparkling wife. He was so 
perfectly satisfied of his own posses- 
sion of Emma’s heart, as well as of 
her person, that he watched any of 
this sort of “ affaire ” with some- 
what of the coolness with which one 
would look at a violent sea dashing 
agaiust an iceberg. He would take 
his pipe out of his mouth sometimes 
to say to his wife, “ Emma, there’s 
Benny Dandridge looking after you. 
He has got on his finest suit to-day. 
Did you ever notice that he always 
wears his socks and cravat and gloves 
2 


of the same color ? Yesterday they 
were yellow, to-day they are red. I 
wish you would tell him never to 
wear blue. It’s not becoming ! 
People owe something to society. 
They ought to dress becomingly. I 
don’t like blue on Benny.” 

Emma would look up angrily. 

“ Pshaw, Arthur ! what do I care 
about Benny Dandridge’s socks and 
cravats? I think he is just more 
detestable than ever. He used to 
worry my life out when we were 
children with his foolishness, and 
he is just a hundred times worse 
now.” 

Emma snapped off the thread from 
a button she was sewing on one of 
Arthur’s shirts in a vindictive style, 
that showed how gladly she would 
have served Benny’s head in the 
same way if she had had the power 
to do it. Arthur laughed his low, in- 
dolent laugh, and, drawing his wife 
to him, kissed her red, pursed-up, 
angry little mouth. 

Benny was quite an accomplished 
musician. He sang well, in a fine 
baritone voice, and played well on 
the organ. Mrs. Dulany had had 
one of Bruneti’s finest organs built 
up in a room adjoining her studio, 
and even Emma enjoyed listening at 
a distance to the beautiful music 
which Benny often stole away from 
them all to make for himself upon 
this king of instruments. 

Though delicately framed, Benny 
had large, white hands, strong and 
full-veined, showing powerful pas- 
sions and susceptibility, and they 
gave him great power over his in- 
strument. 

One day they all went over to the 
island to take luncheon in the pa- 
vilion there. Some of the ladies 
had their fancy-work with them. 
Miss Clementina was great on tat- 


18 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


ting. Mrs. Dulany carried a book 
of poems and a guitar, in case they 
should grow weary of conversation. 
Arthur took his pipe, and his fur- 
lined cloak to make a divan of. 
Emma and Benny conveyed each 
their respective sketch-books, for 
they both drew very well from na- 
ture. 

After seeing Arthur comfortable 
in the pavilion, Emma wandered off 
with her drawing apparatus to the 
opposite side of the little island, to 
take a sketch of the lake. She had 
begun her drawing, and it was so 
far advanced that she was not willing 
to leave it, when she heard a step 
behind her, and Benny approached 
with his sketch-book in hand. 
Emma glanced up rather impa- 
tiently, but she only looked a little 
spiteful. She would not order him 
to quit the premises, as it was really 
the prettiest point de vue. So she 
sat quietly on her camp-stool, and 
went on with her sketching, while 
Benny coolly established himself on 
a log not far off from her, and began 
his drawing. They both drew on 
in silence for several minutes ; then 
Benny uttered an exclamation over 
an awkward stroke of his pencil, 
which made Emma look up. 

“ Emma,” said Benny, “ pardon 
me — Mrs. Lalande, I mean. How 
did you get in that tree there ? I 
see' you have put it so nicely.” 

“ I put in the distance first with 
a stencil,” said Emma, “and drew 
over it.” 

“ Stupid of me,” said Benny, “ not 
to think of that. Let me see yours, 
will you, for a moment, please ?” 

Emma held out her drawing-book, 
and Benny examined it carefully. 
On returning the book, he did not 
go again to his log, but sat himself 
on the ground nearer to Emma. 


They sketched on silently. Soon 
Emma felt conscious that Benny was 
drawing closer to her ; his foot 
touched the hem of her skirt. Emma 
quietly pulled in her skirt about her 
feet. Benny did not seem to ob- 
serve this movement; his foot moved 
forward again. He seemed to feel 
an involuntary attraction, as if he 
must touch something connected 
with Emma. Benny’s organ-play- 
ing had given an education to his 
feet, which were nearly as sensitive 
and supple as other people’s hands. 
Emma did not like to notice these 
movements, which might have been 
accidental, so she continued draw- 
ing ; but her cheeks began to flush. 
Presently Benny’s French boot 
touched her kid slipper. Emma 
sprang up as if it had been a scor- 
pion, and flashing one fiery glance 
on Benny, she turned to leave the 
disagreeable proximity. 

Benny caught her hand. 

“Emma, don’t be so angry with 
me. If you would only pity me a 
little 1 it is all I ask. I don’t ask 
you to love me 1” 

“I hate you,” gasped Emma; 
“you always were hateful, and you 
know it, and you pretend to be my 
friend and Arthur’s, too! I hate 
you 1” 

“ Well, I am your friend ; nothing 
more — indeed, indeed, little Emma,” 
pleaded Benny. “ Why can’t you 
like me a little, when I have always 
loved you so much ? Emma, Arthur 
is so indolent, he loves himself better 
than he does you or anybody. And 
I knew you first, too, ever since you 
were a baby.” 

Emma snatched her hand from 
Benny’s. 

“ You know much about my noble 
husband ! Ask Louis Stillman why 
Arthur is indolent, and you will see, 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


19 


while you were fiddling and dancing 
in Paris, making believe to be one 
of the officers of the French cavalry, 
Arthur was fighting the battles of 
his country — was wounded in trying 
to save his friend’s life, and the 
wound has left him in such a con- 
dition that any violent exertion is 
painful, and might be fatal to him. 
You, Benny Dandridge, are not 
worthy to be named at the same 
time with my Arthur ! And I will 
just thank you to let me alone, and 
never to speak to me again as long 
as I live.” 

Emma rushed off in a towering 
passion, leaving Benny in possession 
of the field, but very discomfited, 
and altogether miserable. Emma 
made a circuit of the island in order 
to cool down before returning to 
the pavilion. When she got back 
there, she sat herself down by 
Arthur’s improvised divan, and 
served him with edibles, as an oda- 
lisque would her master. The 
others gradually wandered back. 
Mrs. Dulany gave them luncheon 
from the baskets brought by the 
servants, and then she read aloud 
the “ Morte d’ Arthur,” from Ten- 
nyson’s Idyls of the King. Benny 
came in during the reading, stole to 
his aunt’s side, helped himself to 
luncheon, and listened to the poem, 
sending an occasional glance of 
pleading entreaty towards Emma, 
who sat with her head turned away 
from him. But Emma’s cheeks and 
neck were crimson still ; and when 
Mrs. Dulany had finished the ex- 
quisite poem, Emma said emphati- 
cally, 11 1 do hate Queen Guinevere ; 
I always did.” 

Benny sighed audibly. Arthur 
put out his hand and caressed his 
wife’s small head tenderly, as she 
bent near him. Emma leaned over 


with a sudden impulse, and secretly 
kissed Arthur’s other hand, as it 
held his unfailing pipe. 

Benny saw the tender salutation 
as he sat by, and felt a momentary 
pang of bitterness. But he took 
two extra glasses of iced cham- 
pagne, and his spirits rose again. 

Miss Clementina helped herself to 
a pate , and then observed, relevant 
to Emma’s ejaculation, shaking her 
head solemnly, 

“ Queen Guinevere was a terrible 
creature — terrible and so unnatural.” 

“ Only too natural, I fear,” said 
Mrs. Dulany. “ Such mistakes are 
often made by women, preferring a 
Launcelot to an Arthur.” 

“ She knew Launcelot first,” plead- 
ed Athalie. “ She loved him before 
she ever saw King Arthur, and he 
was a noble knight.” 

“We love where we must, not 
where we ought, perhaps,” observed 
Col. Yon Lingard, with a glance at 
Athalie, which Mrs. Dulany caught. 
Athalie’s fair face flushed a rosy 
pink. Miss Clemmy was looking at 
her with her eyes half closed in a 
sort of questioning way. 

“ She was married to Arthur by 
her father’s will ; she was not con- 
sulted at all in the beginning,” said 
Ellen Fortier. 

“ 0, well, she ought to have made 
the best of it,” put in Sophie For- 
tier. 

“ She had the best, and was too 
foolish to see it,” said Emma, 
severely ; “ and there was no use of 
all that praying after Arthur’s death. 
She and Launcelot had better got 
married and lived respectably, and 
then they would have got dread- 
fully bored with each other, I know. 
That sentimental sort of love is all 
nonsense. I don’t believe in it.” 

“I tell you what,” said Arthur, 


20 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


“ women are often very silly about 
such things. In every good-natured 
man there is a disposition to say 
amiable and courteous things to 
any pretty nice woman — what Jean 
Paul calls ‘ general love’ towards all 
nice women, and what Gutzkow calls 
‘ anstandige artlichkeiten,’ ‘ decent 
tendernesses ,’ that spring up momen- 
tarily from occasions, and which 
sweep over a man’s soul just like a 
summer cloud. But women always 
take things au serieux. They like 
the excitement and mystery of any 
sort of a passion. The man kisses 
a woman’s hand if it’s white and 
pretty, and forgets all about it. But 
the woman remembers it, and wants 
him to be perpetually on his knees 
before her, when he has other work 
to do in this much troubled and 
entangled world. I wish women 
had more sense about such things, 
for, as a general thing, I like the sex.” 
Arthur winced here and laughed, as 
Emma pinched his arm severely. “ I 
declare, Emma, your fingers are 
sharp as little claws,” he said. 

“ Served you right I pinch him, 
Mrs. Lalande,” said Ellen Fortier, 
“ for talking so about us.” 

“ I’m giving you all wholesome 
advice from a man’s point of view,” 
rejoined Arthur, laughingly; “you 
ought to be very grateful to me. It 
is perfectly disinterested on my part, 
because I like to flirt a little myself 
when Emma is not about ; but I tell 
you, Miss Ellen, there is not a man 
of the world in the world, who has 
the least soft-heartedness about him, 
who won’t make love to every attrac- 
tive woman he sees if she’ll let him. 
No man of any sentiment can help 
it. All of*you women believe in a 
grand passion. We men know there 
are a hundred grand passions in a 
sensitive man’s life. I have had a 


thousand slight attacks of this malady 
you call love, and am waiting until 
I’ve been married twenty years to 
build up, atom by atom, a real grand 
passion for Emma ! Lord, Emma, 
you’ve bitten a piece out of my little 
finger now 1” and Arthur held up 
his hand as if in pain. 

“ 0, Mr. Lalande ! how can you 
say such dreadful things?” said So- 
phie Fortier, affectedly. 

“Pshaw! it is the truth!” said 
Miss Clemmy, looking severely at 
Athalie. 

“ I don’t believe it,” remarked 
Athalie, quietly. 

“ Neither do I,” affirmed Col. Yon 
Lingard. 

“ I know it is not true,” said 
Benny, plaintively. 

“ Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ! 
Men are deceivers ever ; 

One foot on sea, and one on shore, 

In one thing constant never,” 

sang Emma, gayly. 

Arthur patted her on the head. 
“That’s right! stick up for your 
husband, Emma ; perhaps I won’t 
have to wait so long as twenty years 
for my grand passion. Twenty 
years ! Ah, little woman, I should 
like to feel certain of twenty days,” 
added he, mournfully, thinking of 
his precarious hold on life. Arthur 
rarely ever alluded to his dangerous 
condition. Emma’s eyes filled up 
with tears in an instant, and Louis 
Stillman pressed his lips forcibly 
together. 

Mrs. Dulany laid her hand gently 
on Arthur’s and pressed his hand 
firmly. Arthur returned the pres- 
sure. 

“ Give me a bumper of cham- 
pagne,” he said, rousing himself from 
his momentary gloom. “Everybody 
fill up their glasses — a bumper now, 
mind !” Arthur stood up, holding 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


21 


hissparkling goblet aloft, and recited 
with enthusiasm Pinckney’s beauti- 
ful “Health.” 

“I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness 
alone, 

A woman of her gentle sex the seeming 
paragon.” 

Arthur recited it beautifully all 
through, and when he got to the last 
two lines — 

“Her health! and would on earth there 
stood some more of such a frame, 

That life might be all poetry and weari- 
ness a name,” 

he seized Mrs. Dulany’s hand, 
and pressed it to his lips, and ex- 
claimed, “ The health of Rosalthe 
Dulany.” Everybody clapped their 
hands and cried out vivat, and drank 
off their bumpers. Mrs. Dulany 
smiled, but her pale cheeks crim- 
soned : “ Arthur, you’re too bad !” 
she said, gently. 

“ Don’t you believe in love, Mrs. 
Dulany ?” asked Col. Yon Lingard. 

“ Certainly I do. I think it the 
most powerful of all human im- 
pulses,” replied Rosalthe, after a 
pause. She continued in a low 
voice, “ I myself have known the 
fullest and the happiest love, so long 
as God allowed it to me. But, 
Col. Yon Lingard, I do think that 
that strongest of passions should 
not absorb the whole life, as some 
women and some men encourage it 
to do. As animals, love is the end 
of life ; but as immortals, it is not 
— at least not love of any mortal. 
A woman has to continue in exist- 
ence immortally, even if no other 
atom is conjoined with her, here or 
hereafter. Novalis asks, ‘ 1st die 
Frau der Zweck des Mannes, und ist 
die Frau ohne Zweck ?’ (Is woman 
the end of man’s life, and is woman 
without any object in living ?) I 
think not. It has been said by 


Helmholz, ‘Man’s existence is but 
a ripple on the surface of time ;’ 
and I think individual man and 
woman’s mortal existence but a rip- 
ple upon their immortality. Sir, we 
are accountable to our Creator for 
ourselves, our souls, whether we are 
loved here or unloved. In a certain 
sense, each individual is a separate, 
immortal, responsible atom of vital- 
ity, whether we belong to a cluster 
of atoms, or pass on alone in a 
solitary orbit of our own. It is hap- 
pier to love and be loved, but it is 
not necessary.” 

“ There comes the steamboat,” 
called out old Mr. Foster from the 
shore of the little islet. 

“Ah ! let’s hurry home to get the 
mails,” said Emma ; “ I expect let- 
ters to-day — one from Annis at least, 
I know !” 

The party soon collected their 
shawls and other paraphernalia, and 
hastened down to their boats, in 
which they were quickly ferried over 
the lake to the mainland, where they 
awaited the landing of the little 
steamboat. 

Emma got a seat on a stump of 
an old tree, and made rapidly a 
fine sketch of the lake and the ap- 
proaching steamboat, which some- 
what consoled her for the fiasco of 
the one on the island. The other 
members of the party looked over 
her shoulder, commented on the 
view, the skilfulness of her pencil, 
and strolled around generally while 
awaiting the boat’s arrival. 

Benny had not ventured to ap- 
proach Emma, but at last he stole 
up, and whispered behind her : 

“ For God’s sake, Emma, forgive 
me ! I will promise never to offend 
so again. Don’t be angry with 
your old playfellow, who has loved 


22 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


you all his life, and would die to 
save you from harm, or to spare you 
any grief in the world.” 

Emma turned her head slightly. 

“ Well, I tell you, Benny Dan- 
dridge, you must not try French 
manners with me, because I sha’n’t 
stand it. I like you well enough 
when you behave yourself; but you 
know I never did let you take any 
sort of liberty with me. I used to 
box your ears for you if you did, 
and I will now, too.” 

“ Very well, Emma,” replied 
Benny, “ you are welcome to do so, 
if you want to ; but I will be glad 
if you will pardon me this time. 
Won’t you shake hands ?” 

“No, I won’t shake hands, be- 
cause I am busy with my hands ; 
but I’ll befriends,” said Emma, nod- 
ding her head unceremoniously. 

Benny gave a long sigh of relief. 
He did hate to have anybody angry 
with him, especially Emma. 

The boat drew up to the shore, 
and the scene was soon full of bustle 
and confusion. Mrs. Dulany had 
the mail for the house taken in, and 
the party adjourned there to read 
their letters and periodicals, every- 
body taking their separate parcels to 
their own apartments to enjoy them 
in quiet. 


CHAPTER IY. 

Old Mr. Foster had proposed a 
hunt. All the gentlemen agreed to 
go except Arthur Lalande. There 
did not seem to be any question 
about his choice in the matter. It 
was tacitly assumed. It seemed to 
Benny Dandridge that Arthur would 


not go. He recalled Emma’s words 
on the island, and seizing an oppor- 
tunity, he asked the silent Louis 
Stillman “ why Arthur Lalande 
seemed so very indolent ? He won’t 
hunt with us, nor ride, nor row, nor 
do anything.” 

Louis replied briefly, “ Seven years 
ago Arthur Lalande was the fore- 
most in all manly sports ; but during 
the war, in rescuing me, when I fell 
badly wounded in a rush at Chicka- 
mauga, he got a bad sabre cut, 
which has produced an aneurism, 
that may be fatal at any moment. 
He dare not make exertion, or en- 
dure any fatigue. His life hangs 
upon a thread.” 

“Good God 1” exclaimed Benny, 
truly shocked ; “you don’t tell me 
so. Lord ! what a — ” he checked 
himself, as he was about to say, 
“ what an infernal scoundrel I have 
been !” But he said, in a changed 
tone, “ Poor, dear little Emma ! 
and she idolizes him. It is very sad, 
really.” 

“Very,” laconically replied the 
silent scout. 

“ I would like you to tell me all 
the particulars,” said the loquacious 
Benjamin, sitting himself down ami- 
ably for gossip. 

“ That’s all. I don’t remember 
anything more than getting this 
wound in my skull,” and, parting his 
hair, Louis showed the silver tre- 
panning. “Arthur saw me fall, and 
springing forward to parry the next 
cut, which would have finished me, 
he got his wound. That’s all I 
know. He has never been good for 
anything since ; while I, you see, 
have got all straight again, with 
this bit of silver roofing over my 
brains.” 

“Poor Arthur! poor fellow!” 
soliloquized Benny. “ He is a real 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


23 


good fellow, too, and Emma so fond 
of him.” 

Benny rose and walked away medi- 
tatively. That evening began a new 
phase in his behavior towards Emma 
and Arthur. He treated her with 
the cool consideration of a brother, 
while he became absolutely tender 
in his manner towards Arthur. 

Emma was quite pleased at this 
change. Arthur took Benny’s de- 
votion with his usual careless bon- 
homie and gemiithlickeit. 

Benny nearly overdid it though, 
for Emma grew rather jealous of his 
interference with her prerogative of 
attendance upon Arthur, and she 
snubbed Benny about it, saying, on 
one occasion, 

“ Indeed, Benny, you are very 
good, but I can’t let anybody do that 
for Arthur but myself.” 

“ Very well, Emma,” said Benny, 
with wonderful humility, “I know; 
I don’t want to interfere with your 
rights, you know ; but if I can be of 
any use to you and Arthur, well, I 
should like it.” 

“ Of course,” replied Emma, “and 
I’ll ask you when I need you.” 

So Benny had to be content with 
this promise. He sobered down 
wonderfully for a few days, in con- 
sequence of Louis’s communication, 
probably ; and if he determined to 
be resolutely on his good behavior, 
with a vague, ulterior thought that 
Emma might become a beautiful 
young widow at any moment, no- 
body knew it but himself. 

Miss Clementina continued her 
tatting and her espionage upon 
Athalie. At the most unexpected 
moments the tap-tap of her ebony 
cane would be heard approaching 
the parlors, whenever Athalie and 
Col. Yon Lingard were there. Mrs. 
Dulany, too, began to look with 


some anxiety upon the progressing 
intimacy between these two guests 
of hers. She felt responsible for 
Athalie, and she was very fond of 
her ; but there had been nothing 
overt as yet that she could notice, 
or make the foundation of a private 
talk with Athalie. 

Mr. Foster was very much occu- 
pied in getting ready for the pro- 
posed grand hunting expedition. 
He and nine other men of fortune 
owned a small steamboat before the 
war, which they used to man with 
their own servants, hiring a good 
engineer by the month from New 
Orleans. The hold of the boat was 
fitted up as a kennel for their dogs, 
and the lower deck filled with stalls 
for horses. The party always took 
twenty horses and one hundred and 
sixteen dogs with them, and they 
would go off for a couple of months, 
shooting, fishing, hunting, up the 
Ouachita; the Red River, far into 
the Indian Nation ; down the At- 
chafalaya, immortalized by Long- 
fellow; through the streams and 
bayous, sometimes far out into the 
Gulf of Mexico, red-fishing and 
catching pompino and devil-fish. 
They would sometimes quit their 
boat and pack their knapsacks, when 
they would go to shoot birds on the 
broad prairies of the Attakapas, or 
to hunt deer and wild hogs in the 
dense forests of the lowlands of Lou- 
isiana. It was these annual expedi- 
tions that had furnished Mr. Foster 
with his wealth of hunting stories, 
of which Emma Lalande complained 
often so bitterly, and to which Miss 
Clemmy listened with extreme de- 
light. The little steamboat, Louis 
d’Or, had been hidden up the Red 
River above Shreveport during the 
war, and Mr. Foster had only re- 
cently gotten her down on the lake, 


24 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


and was superintending some need- 
ful repairs on her at this very time. 

In the meanwhile the rest of the 
party amused themselves as well as 
they could with billiards, croquet, 
cards, chess, books, music, and con- 
versation. On the bright, beautiful 
afternoons which come like bits of 
summer so frequently, in a Louisiana 
winter, they boated, or they rode on 
horseback or drove through the in- 
terminable forests or along the lake 
shores. Benny had his famous white 
Arabian mare, Odalisque, sent up 
from New Orleans, and persuaded 
Athalie to ride her, as Emma posi- 
tively declined mounting “a strange 
horse.” Beautiful as an houri 
Athalie looked on the milk-white 
steed, whose tail and mane flowed 
like floss silk as she tossed her head 
and sprang lightly off with her 
slight burden. Whenever Athalie 
rode her, Col. Yon Lingard was 
never very far away on such occa- 
sions. Athalie enjoyed her rides, as 
Miss Clemmy could not possibly ac- 
company the party, and so for seve- 
ral hours Athalie felt released from 
surveillance. She had no intention 
of failing in duty, but the know- 
ledge that Miss Clemmy was watch- 
ing her every movement had a bad 
effect upon her wilful temperament, 
and almost prevailed over her own 
good sense in suggesting possibili- 
ties of outwitting and outmanoeu- 
vring Miss Clemmy. She began to 
let Col. Yon Lingard have opportu- 
nities to approach her and to mo- 
nopolize her attention and conversa- 
tion — opportunities of which he was 
never loth to avail himself. Benny 
commenced to see that Col. Yon Lin- 
gard was quite a fascinating man, 
and altogether too attentive to his 
beautiful cousin-in-law. One even- 
ing, after returning from a long ride, 


in which he had escorted Ellen For- 
tier, and Col. Yon Lingard had been 
attendant upon Athalie, he said to 
Mrs. Deslondes, finding her alone in 
the drawing-room, just before the 
rest joined her for dinner, 

“Athalie, did you ever read 1 Ber- 
tram’?” 

“‘Bertram!’ what, the play?” 
responded Athalie. 

“ Yes.” 

“No; but I have seen it acted. 
Why do you ask, Benny ?” 

“ Only because it is such a dread- 
ful tragedy, brought about by a 
wife’s infidelity,” responded Benny. 
“It made a great impression on me.” 

Athalie looked at him with flash- 
ing eyes, and bit her under lip, then, 
saying lightly, 

“I never took particular interest 
in the play. I went with Emma 
Lalande once to see it, and she 
cried, I remember, and made her eyes 
ridiculously red over it. It did not 
affect me at all.” 

It was Benny’s turn now to flush 
up and wince under Athalie’s glow- 
ing glance and cool manner. He 
made no rejoinder, however, as Col. 
Yon Lingard just at the moment 
entered the apartment, bringing a 
bouquet of brilliant berries and 
holly leaves tied with Spanish moss 
in his hand, which he presented with 
a complimentary word to Athalie. 

She took the little bouquet, held 
it to her lips a moment, as if in- 
haling fragrance where Benny knew 
there was none, and therefore re- 
garded it as a caress of Col. Yon 
Lingard’s winter-posey, in bravado 
of him and his attempted warning. 
Then Athalie deliberately divided 
the bunch of leaves and crimson ber- 
ries, and walking in front of the large * 
niirror which reached from the ceil- 
ing to the floor of the drawing- 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G G1A TURA. 


25 


room, she fastened one group of 
leaves coquettishly in her hair and 
the other on her bosom. Benny was 
compelled to confess to himself that 
the crimson and green was very be- 
coming to Athalie’s hair and cor- 
sage, and he turned away with a 
half smile at her semi-threatening 
expression of eye and the perverse 
compression of her red lips. She 
meant him to understand that he was 
not to watch her, and that she in- 
tended doing just as she pleased. 
Benny understood, it without words. 

Life was smooth and often monot- 
onous in this secluded country-home 
of Mrs. Dulany’s. Life is generally 
monotonous everywhere. One does 
the same things every day. It is 
impossible for humanity to endure 
perpetually successive shocks of nov- 
elty and adventure, and incidents do 
not occur in any mortal life every 
hour of every day. Civilization has 
toned down the exuberance even of 
natural savagery. One no longer has 
the ardent though painful excite- 
ment of seeking for food and shelter 
and warmth which a savage experi- 
ences. Existence is provided for, 
and life is a level plane everywhere 
among people who don’t have to 
work for their living, and so rich 
people are very frequently bored 
from lack of desire or interest in any 
thing. 

‘“Morgen wie heut’ 

In ewige Zeit,’ ” 

exclaimed Emma. “I declare, I 
don’t think ‘ Waldensamkeit ’ would 
suit me, or 1 freut ’ me always.” 

“ My dear wife,” responded Ar- 
thur, taking his pipe from his lips, 
“ you ought to learn to smoke cigar- 
ettes or a nargillah, and then you 
would have a delightful Nirwana al- 
ways prepared for your mercurial 
nature to take refuge into.” 


“ Pshaw ! I am not a Hindoo,” 
said Emma. 

♦“ No, you have nothing Aryan in 
you, mignonne ; you are French 
from the crown of your head to the 
tip of your little foot,” replied Ar- 
thur, philosophically, stuffing a fresh 
supply of perrique into his pipe. 

“ My dearly beloved,” continued 
Arthur, “don’t you remember 
Charles Lamb’s lines on the Forest 
Scene ?” 

“ No,” replied Emma, briefly. 
Arthur waved his meerschaum 
gracefully in the air, and spouted 
the following verses; — 

“ What sports have you in the forest? 

Not many ; some few, as thus : 

To see the sun to bed, and see him rise, 

Like some hot amourist with glowing eyes, 
Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound 
him ; 

With all his fires and travelling glories 
’round him. 

Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to 
rest, 

Like beauty nestling on a young man’s 
breast. 

And all the winking stars, her handmaids, 
keep 

Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. 
Sometimes outstretched in very idleness, 
Naught doing, saying nothing, thinking less, 
To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, 
Go eddying ’round; and small birds, how 
they fare, 

When mother Autumn fills their beaks with 
corn 

Filched from the careless Amalthea’s horn ; 
And how the woods berries and worms pro- 
vide 

Without their pains, when earth hath naught 
beside 

To answer their small wants. 

To view the graceful deer come trooping by, 
Then pause, and gaze, then turn, they know 
not why, 

Like bashful younkers in society ; 

To mark the structure of a plant or tree, 
And all fair things of earth, how fair they 
be.’” 

“ Well, well,” interrupted Emma, 
laughing, “there is at least one true 
line in that, for you do * naught,’ 
Louis Stillman says ‘ nothing,’ and 
Conrad ‘ thinks less.’” 


26 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


CHAPTER Y. 

Old Mr. Foster said that day at 
dinner that the steamboat Louis 
d’Or wouldn’t be in order for at 
least two weeks. Her boilers had 
to be overhauled and patched, and 
he would be compelled to write to 
“ the city for a workman to do it 
properly.” The gentlemen all 
looked gloomy when this pronun- 
ciamento was issued from the foot 
of Mrs. Dulany’s table. At least 
all did, save Arthur, who wasn’t to 
go. He continued cracking nuts 
for Athalie with unperturbed coun- 
tenance. 

“ Oh, dear,” sighed Benny, “ I 
am very weary of squirrel and bird 
shooting.” 

“ Well,” exclaimed Emma, viva- 
ciously, “ why don’t you all go on a 
deer drive or bear hunt, or some- 
thing? Go to-morrow. We are 
all worn out with croquet and bil- 
liards. We women will be delight- 
ed to have a whole long day of en- 
tire repose and abandon .” 

“ You know very well that Ar- 
thur is not going,” retorted Benny, 
maliciously. 

“ 0, Arthur 1 We can shut him 
up in his own apartments with 
Trollope’s last, and we will send 
his meals in on a tray to him,” 
laughed Athalie. 

“ I wish you oppressively strong- 
bodied fellows would go off for a 
day,” put in Arthur, gravely, laying 
a fresh supply of nuts on Athalie’s 
plate. “ Mrs. Deslondes, you eat 
nuts like a squirrel. I believe you 
could live on nuts. You had better 
furnish me with a plateful and a 
pair of crackers, as well as the 
novel; then I can send you back on 
the tray a sufficient supply for two 
days, if I am to be shut up.” 


Athalie nodded her head. She 
had just taken a bite from a banana, 
and wouldn’t speak with her mouth 
filled. 

“ Yon Lingard,” continued Ar- 
thur, “ I hope you will bring back 
a pair of antlers or a panther’s 
skin !” 

“Are there panthers in these 
forests ?” asked Yon Lingard. 

“ Lots 1” said Arthur. “ Lots of 
panthers, no end of wildcats, le- 
gions of wolves, myriads of bear, 
innumerable deer, swarms of ra- 
coons, hundreds of opossums, flocks 
of wild turkeys, and birds of all 
sorts, from snipe and woodcock up 
to swans and flamingoes ! We cau 
provide you with every variety of 
beast or fowl respectable to shoot 
at. I hope you’ll bring back at 
least a turkey tail to make a fan 
for — ” Arthur paused, looked at 
Athalie, whose fair face flushed; 
then coolly ended his tirade — “ a fan' 
for — Aunt Clemmy.” 

Everybody smiled except Miss 
Clementina, who did not relish being 
dragged into any amicable associa- 
tion with Col. Yon Lingard. 

The colonel bowed gallantly. “ I 
shall be most happy if I should be 
so fortunate as to lay my trophies 
at Miss Dandridge’s feet.” 

Miss Clemmy bridled her head, 
exclaiming, “ Nonsense ! What 
makes you such a fool, Arthur La- 
lande ?” 

“ Nature, nature, dear auntie 1” 
responded Arthur, gayly, “ unadul- 
terated nature !” 

Miss Clementina shoved back her 
chair rather tempestuously. Mrs. 
Dulany rose instantly, and summon- 
ing the ladies, Benny sprang to the 
door, opened it, and the gentlemen, 
after bowing the ladies out, sat 
down again to their wine, listening 


A SOUTHERN V1LLEGGIA TURA. 27 


to Mr. Foster’s stories, and eagerly 
discussing the practicability of a 
good deer drive on the succeeding 
morning. Mr. Foster promised to 
have horses, dogs, guns, and attend- 
ants all ready by the break of day. 

“ Yon Lingard, you will have to 
ride one of Rosalthe’s carriage 
horses. He is steady and stands 
fire !” 

“Very well, Mr. Foster. Any- 
thing you choose.” 

“ And I,” said Benny, “ will try 
Odalisque.” 

“ She has never been under fire,” 
said Arthur. “ She’ll break your 
neck, Benny 1” 

“ She will have to learn,” replied 
Benny. “ Might as well begin.” 

“You ought to tie fire-crackers, 
and pop them under her nose and 
about her feet first,” said Conrad 
Stilman. 

“ Bother ! she’ll learn !” rejoined 
Benny. 

Just at this point of time, music 
was heard from the drawing-room, 
and Athalie’s superb voice broke 
out in a merry Spanish romancero. 

Von Lingard rose. “ Let’s go to 
the ladies, Dandridge 1” 

“A voire service /” Benny 
dashed off his glass of wine, and 
sprang up from the table. The 
move being made, the gentlemen 
adjourned en masse. 

As they entered the parlor, 
Athalie changed her measure, and 
striking a prelude, she sang mag- 
nificently that passionate cry of de- 
spairing love, Beethoven’s “ Ah, 
Perfido 1” 

Her limited audience was spell- 
bound. Col. Yon Lingard leaned 
against the wall at the side of the 
grand piano, with his arms folded 
across his breast. As Athalie stop- 
ped at the conclusion of her song, 


he looked at her. Their eyes met. 
Hers were full of tears. 

Arthur Lalande was sitting on a 
sofa, with his head bent on his hand. 
He drew his hand hastily over 
his eyes to conceal the drops that 
had gathered there under the influ- 
ence of the plaintive tones. 

“For Heaven’s sake, Benny!” he 
exclaimed, “sing us something 
grand or gay, will you ? Athalie 
is too dolorous !” 

Benny instantly assumed the mu- 
sic stool which Mrs. Deslondes 
vacated now, and sang Rossini’s 
“ Cujus Animam,” from the Stabat 
Mater. Benny’s voice and touch 
were admirable. Then Benny sang 
Schumann’s “ Lotus Flower” with 
exquisite taste and expression. 
Emma listened, with her hand 
gently caressing Arthur’s brown 
locks, as she leaned near him on the 
sofa. 

The party divided after this into 
groups, some to play at cards. 
Athalie and Col. Yon Lingard sat 
down at the chess-table. 

Arthur called the two Fortier 
girls and Benny to his game <?f 
whist. 

While Emma and Louis Stilman 
played euchre against Miss Clem my 
and Conrad Stilman, Mrs. Dulany 
flitted in and out amongst her guests 
for awhile ; she then settled down 
with a piece of embroidery by the 
centre-table, from whence she sur- 
veyed the whole scene, being con- 
tinually called on from one or the 
other card-tables to settle disputes 
and quarrels over the tricks. There 
was no quarrelling over the chess- 
table, however. Athalie and Col. 
Yon Lingard played on in perfect 
silence. Athalie never looked up 
from the board. Her cheeks were 
flushed with the loveliest color. She 


28 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


was transcendently beautiful, with 
her long eyelashes cast down. Col. 
Yon Lingard sat leaning his head 
on one hand, half concealing it from 
the populated end of the room, and 
one would only hear an occa- 
sional low word from his lips of 
“ echec .” Athalie glanced up 
into his face once as he uttered 
the talismanic word, but her 
eyes fell quickly. She moved her 
queen to a safer position. It was a 
long game , but Col. Von Lingard 
won it; yet Athalie was a good 
player — a pupil of Paul Morphy. 
She ought to have played better. 
She pushed the board from her with 
a slight movement of irritation. 
Col. Yon Lingard smiled. 

“ You see I have a little the ad- 
vantage of you,” he said, meaningly. 
“ I am calmer.” 

“You have more skill, but you 
will not find it so easy to defeat me 
in all games,” said Athalie, proudly. 

“ Do you treat all conquered 
creatures very unmercifully, Mrs. 
Deslondes asked Col. Yon Lin- 
gard. “ If not, I yield without 
any attempt at resistance, and cast 
myself upon your mercy uncondi- 
tionally ; or will it be vce victis ?” 


CHAPTER YI. 

Mrs. Dulany was up at dawn on 
the following morning, seeing that 
the huntsmen had hot coffee and cold 
bread, with other comfortable com- 
estibles, for a breakfast before start- 
ing. The rest of the household were 
wrapt in silent slumber, somewhat 
disturbed by the yelping of the 
hounds held in leash outside of the 


gates, and the experimental sound- 
ing of horns by the impatient hunts- 
men. Col. Yon Lingard made his 
appearance in a full hunting suit of 
green, with gold facings. Benny 
sported a suit of English red. While 
the others were all clad in heavy 
clothes of homespun Confederate 
gray, stout and capable of resisting 
the attacks of bushes and brier 
patches. Old Mr. Foster was great- 
ly excited, galloping about from one 
to another of the attendants, speak- 
ing to the dogs, looking after all 
preparations, and carrying his horn, 
made from a neatly-scraped cow’s 
horn, suspended from his shoulder, in 
his hand, ready for the parting blast. 
Louis Stilman was the subject of 
much chaffing from his companions, 
on account of his resolute and earn- 
est attention to gathering about him 
what seemed the most useless and 
unnecessary articles. 

“ Mrs. Dulany, will you give me 
a few pins,” asked the quiet Louis, 
“ and a needle and some thread, and 
a piece of sticking-plaster ?” 

“Certainly,” and Mrs. Dulany 
soon produced the requisite articles. 

“ What the mischief do you want 
with those things, Louis ? ” de- 
manded Benny, with curiosity, see- 
ing Louis draw out of his capacious 
pocket a small housewife, such as 
were found so useful for every Con- 
federate soldier. Louis proceeded 
to stick his pins and needle in their 
appropriate place in the pincushion, 
disposed of his hank of thread and 
his bit of plaster, wrapped up his 
housewife and put it back in his 
pocket coolly, before he replied to 
Benny : — 

“ I am an old scout. I always 
take such articles with me. Some 
of yon fellows may get hurt or shoot 
one another accidentally. I wouldn’t 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


29 


like to have a stand near you, Benny ; 
you shoot too wild for me.” 

“ Pshaw !” said Benny ; “ I took 
the prize in Paris for shooting. You 
are like a dragoon making display 
of his instruments before a battle.” 

“ No, this is only to be a battue ,” 
said Conrad Stilman. 

“ Now, Cato, give me the piece of 
light grass rope I ordered you to 
fetch me,” said Louis, without deign- 
ing to take further notice of the re- 
marks of his companions. “ Here, 
wrap it in a coil and hitch it there 
behind my saddle to that strap. 
Now for the poncho. Strap it up 
tight. Aint that a beauty, Benny ? 
I got it in Texas ; paid two hundred 
and fifty dollars in gold for it to a 
Mexican ; it was his serape. It 
will turn water like oil -cloth, and is 
so warm and light.” 

“ That is a beauty,” acknowledged 
Benny, surveying the blanket with 
the eye of a connoisseur. It was 
dark gray in the centre, surrounded 
with a deep border of narrow alter- 
nating stripes of jet black and fiery 
crimson. “ That is real Mexican ; 
rare and valuable as an Indian cash- 
mere, in its way.” 

“ More precious to me,” replied 
Louis, vaulting lightly on his sad- 
dle without touching the stirrup, and 
gathering the reins in an instant. 

“ Ready, now, Mr. Foster 1” sung 
out Benny. 

Mr. Foster raised his horn by its 
dangling tassels, put it to his lips, 
and blew vigorously. The dogs 
howled and yelped dolorously, the 
horses snorted and pranced, under 
the excitement of the noise, the cool 
air, and fear of the spur. Odal- 
isque put back her ears, and had a 
mind to try a run, then changed her 
ideas, tossed her head till the long 
flossy mane streamed like white silk 


all about her neck, put her head 
down, and gave a series of deer-like 
bounds, which nearly unseated Ben- 
ny, so the laugh turned on him. 
They were all in high spirits, and 
laughed at very small matters. Mrs. 
Dulany stood watching the train of 
riders, dogs, and attendants until 
they were hid from view by a turn 
of the road. 11 1 hope they may have 
good sport and no accident,” she 
said to herself as she turned back 
into the house. 


CHAPTER YII. 

The day wore on at the Wilder- 
ness. The ladies lounged in their 
respective apartments. Arthur went 
off on a quiet fishing excursion with 
a little negro boy for escort and sole 
attendant. Emma wrote letters. 
Athalie spent nearly the whole morn- 
ing practising a new aria. The 
Fortier girls had their crochet-work 
and tapestry. Ellen was crochet- 
ing a purse for Louis Stilman, and 
Sophie had a pair of slippers under 
way intended for the handsome feet 
of the handsome Conrad. Mrs. Du- 
lany was shut up in her studio very 
busy on a new picture, whose sub- 
ject she made a temporary secret of. 
She told them when the picture was 
done they should see it, and she 
would narrate the story connected 
with it also. When she joined the 
ladies at luncheon, they were all 
curious to know how the mysterious 
picture was progressing. 

“ Very rapidly,” said Mrs. Du- 
lany. 

“Just give us the least hint of its 
subject, won’t you ?” persisted Ellen 


30 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


Fortier. “ Is it a portrait or land- 
scape, a picture of a man or wo- 
man ?” 

Mrs. Dulany smiled. “It is both 
a landscape and a portrait — a view, 
with a woman in it.” 

Ellen’s curiosity was vehemently 
increased, but she knew she could 
get nothing more from Mrs. Dula- 
ny, as that lady quietly turned the 
conversation upon another topic. 

“ I suppose our huntsmen will 
be back to late dinner,” observed 
Mrs. Dulany. “ I have ordered din- 
ner at eight instead of our usual hour 
of six. That will give a margin for 
stragglers. They can’t hunt well 
with dogs after dark, and they were 
not intending to make a fire hunt.” 

“No,” said Athalie; “Col. Yon 
Lingard said they would certainly 
be back to dinner.” 

“ I am always uneasy,” said Em- 
ma, “when so many men go hunting 
and shooting together. Unskilful 
marksmen are dangerous neighbors 
on a close stand.” 

Athalie’s face flushed, then paled. 
She bit her lip, however, and re- 
pressed any open expression of ap- 
prehension. 

“ Well,” said Ellen Fortier, “ I 
suppose they all know how to shoot 
pretty well, except may be the Prus- 
sian colonel. I know the Stilmans 
do, and Mr. Foster.” 

“ I am not so certain about Ben- 
ny 1” exclaimed Emma. 

“ Bah ! Benny shoots well. He 
has shot leopards in Syria, and lions 
in Africa, and tigers in India,” said 
Miss Clementina, rapping indignant- 
ly on her musical snuff-box. She 
knocked so hard that the box started 
off on its peculiar tune, a waltz of 
Arditi’s, and played away merrily. 
Miss Ciemmy deposited it on the 


table till it had played out its brief 
repertoire . 

“ I forgot I had wound it up,” 
she said, half apologetically. 

The ladies sat in silence until the 
extemporized concert was ended. 
They were used to Miss Clemmy’s 
ways. 

The afternoon passed away. 
Sunset brought Arthur back with a 
basket of fine fish — one of which, a 
large trout, he insisted upon having 
weighed then and there. The la- 
dies came out to see the fish weigh- 
ed. It was a very large trout of 
four and a half pounds. 

“ That is the great grandfather 
of the trouts here,” said Arthur. 
“That little imp, Orange, took 
me to a lake back in the swamp 
that had never been fished in before, 
I believe. Such a time as we had 
getting through the bushes and 
brambles 1” 

“ Did you enjoy your lunch ?” 
asked Emma, lifting her hand and 
running it through the long light 
silky locks which fell rather heavily 
upon Arthur’s forehead. 

“ Oh, yes, at least Orange did. 
He devoured the greater part of it. 
It was a pleasure to look at him 
over the potato pies. He ate a pie 
and a half in addition to nearly all 
the sandwiches, pickles, and jams 
with which you had crammed my 
basket. Mrs. Dulany,” said Ar- 
thur, “ I think Orange will die to- 
night, unless he possesses the diges- 
tive apparatus of an ostrich.” 

Orange, who was standing by, 
looking with interested and impor- 
tant eyes at the weighing of the 
trout, grinned at this dire prognos- 
tication, until every white tooth in 
his head was visible. 

“ Law ! Mars Arthur I I’m hun- 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


31 


gry for ray dinner now. I kin eat 
agin without any sort o’ trouble.” 

“ Then you are a metamorphosed 
ostrich or cormorant. You have 
only been evolved to one higher 
state of existence, Orange !” 

“ Dun know nuthin about that, 
Mars Arthur, but I knows when 
I’m hungry, and when I isn’t,” re- 
sponded the young hopeful. 

Emma carried Arthur off with 
her to their room, that he might 
rest awhile before he bathed and 
dressed for dinner, and the ladies 
all separated to their toilettes. 

At half past seven they were re- 
assembled in the drawing-room, all 
looking their loveliest. Athalie was 
resplendent in blue satin and pearls. 

Arthur stood before the fire with 
his watch in his hand. 

“ They are late in returning,” 
said he. 

Emma held her hand to her ear. 
“Hark!” she said. “I hear the 
sound of hoofs coming down the 
lane now.” 

In a few minutes the trotting of 
horses was heard by everybody, and 
Mrs. Dulany hurried out on the ve- 
randah to meet the hunters. It was 
dark, and she could not distinguish 
the individuals. She only saw a 
number of men and horses, con- 
spicuous among them Benny’s white 
mare, Odalisque. 

“Welcome back,” she called, as 
the party rode up to the door. “ I 
am really thankful that you have all 
got home safely !” 

“ But we are not all here, Mrs. 
Dulany !” said Benny. “ Col. Yon 
Lingard got lost somehow, and 
Louis Stilman went off to look for 
him, arid he hasn’t got back either. 
We all searched in a body for him 
as far as we could, blowing our 
horns and firing our guns off, for an 


hour and a half, until it grew too 
late to do anything, so we thought 
it best to come home. We shall 
start out again by daybreak, if the 
colonel and Louis don’t get out be- 
fore then. It was of no use to stay 
there to-night. It was looking for a 
needle in a haystack in that im- 
mense forest and in darkness.” 

Now as soon as Benny made the 
announcement Mr. Foster and Con- 
rad Stilman and the attendant freed- 
men all began to talk and explain 
how everybody had warned Col. 
Yon Lingard not to stray off out of 
sight, and not to leave his stand; 
and how Louis Stilman wanted to 
be put next him, but wasn’t, for Con- 
rad was stationed there accidentally ; 
and how Conrad said Yon Lin- 
gard got so excited over the crying 
of the hounds that he galloped after 
them like a crazy man ; and how 
Conrad called after him that he 
would certainly get lost, and sure 
enough Conrad never saw him 
again. 

Mrs. Dulany listened in silence to 
the hubbub of voices-. She was very 
much disturbed and rather vexed at 
her uncle and Conrad and Benny for 
leaving a stranger in such a pre- 
dicament, but she repressed her 
feelings, made them describe exactly 
the portion of forest in which they 
had last seen Yon Lingard, and 
where and when Louis Stilman 
started off to search for him. 

Then, turning suddenly away, Mrs. 
Dulany went out among her freed- 
men, and sent for a dozen men who 
had been born on the plantation 
and knew the woods. 

“ Men,” she said, “ a gentleman 

a stranger — is lost in the woods 

while hunting to-day. He was seen 
last ten miles off near the old In- 
dian Ferry. You know the woods. 


32 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


I will give ten dollars apiece to 
every man who will go out and 
search faithfully for this gentleman. 
I fear he may be lost in quagmires 
and sloughs, which you know 
abound in that part of the forest. 
If he would remain quiet, there 
would be little danger, but I fear he 
will not. He will try to get out, 
and his horse may lie down, or he 
himself do so. Then there are alli- 
gators in the sloughs, and wildcats, 
bears, and panthers you know in 
these woods, and he is without fire 
or matches, as he does not smoke.” 

“ We’ll all go, mistress,” said the 
foremost freedman ; “ we’ll search all 
night, and bring back his bones, if 
nothing else.” 

“Go, then. Tell Rena to give 
you some bottles of whiskey, and 
take food and fire-horns with you. 
God grant you may find the poor 
gentleman ! I don’t feel anxious 
about Mr. Stilman. He is an old 
hunter, and he knows the ways to 
spend a night or even a day or so, 
without danger, even if he may 
suffer discomfort. As you go past, 
tell the engineer Tom to make up 
the fires and to blow the whistle of 
the gin-house every half hour 
through the night, so you can keep 
the bearing of the plantation in 
this dark night.” 

As Mrs. Dulany turned to go 
back into the house, she felt a cold 
hand grasp her arm. It was Atha- 
lie. She had followed Mrs. Dulany 
out into the Quarter, her splendid 
satin dress trailing in the dust and 
over the dewy grass. She grasped 
Mrs. Dulany’s arm convulsively, 
and tried to speak, but only gasped 
for breath. At last she said, 
hoarsely, 

“ You are frightened 1 You think 
him in danger 1” 


Mrs. Dulany hesitated, then said 
in a low voice, “ I do ! but there will 
be no means spared to find him ; if 
he will only stay quiet, which he 
may , you know — if he is sensible, he 
will — he will only suffer some dis- 
comfort, and will certainly be found 
to-morrow at farthest. 

Athalie released her arm, and 
turning suddenly sped swiftly to 
her own dressing-room. Summon- 
ing her maid, she said, “ Here, take 
off these things — give me my dress- 
ing-gown — I have a headache — I 
don’t want any dinner. Tell Mrs. 
Dulany please to excuse me 1” 

The maid obeyed. Athalie, throw- 
ing herself on a lounge, bade her 
good-night. As soon as the girl 
was out of the room, she sprang up, 
bolted the door, then dropped pros- 
trate on the floor, with her face bu- 
ried in her arms, and her bright 
golden hair streaming all over her. 
Miss Clemmy came to the door. 
Athalie heard the thump, thump 
of her ebony cane along the hall 
until it paused at the door. 

“ Athalie 1 Athalie 1” called Miss 
Clementina. 

Athalie did not answer. Miss 
Clemmy called vainly, then stumped 
away in dire wrath. 

Mrs. Dulany came too to the 
door. Athalie rose and opened the 
door. She looked haggard and pale. 

Mrs. Dulany took her hand. 

“Athalie, your hands are cold as 
ice. Have you a chill ? Are you 
sick?” 

“ Dear Mrs. Dulany,” said Atha- 
lie, “ please let me be quiet. I am 
subject to sick headaches. I feel 
very ill, and must be left alone, and 
must be quiet. Please make every- 
body let me alone to-night.” 

Mrs. Dulany said nothing. She 
kissed Athalie. 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


33 


“ Have you all that you can 
need ?” she asked. 

“ Everything. I only want to be 
quiet.” 

“Good-night, then. I suppose, 
if our huntsmen come in, you will 
probably hear it. Shall I fix some 
bromide of potassium for you ?” 

“ No ! no 1 nothing 1” said Atha- 
lie. “ Good-night. I only want 
quiet.” 

Mrs. Dulany left her, and Athalie 
threw herself on her bed, sleepless 
and watchful. Wild prayers fell from 
her lips, and wilder tears from her 
eyes. She looked at her clock, and 
began to count hour after hour, “as 
one who watches for the morning.” 

Mrs. Dulany and her guests gath- 
ered sadly around the dinner-table, 
with its two vacant seats. 

There were no games and no mu- 
sic that evening : a slight attempt 
at desultory conversation, a feeble 
effort at liveliness, and everybody 
was glad when the signal was given 
to retire by Mrs. Dulany. 

A half hour afterwards, Mrs. Du- 
lany returned to the drawing-room 
in her dressing-gown. She had fresh 
fuel put on the fire; she had fires 
made in the vacant rooms of Col. 
Yon Lingard and Louis Stilman ; 
then, taking a book, she tried to 
read, listening and starting at every 
sound. The night wore away. To- 
wards daylight, Mrs. Dulany lay 
down on a sofa and threw a shawl 
over her feet, and finally dropped 
into a restless slumber. 

Athalie was not sleeping ; she was 
kneeling at her window, gazing out 
upon the lane. Daybreak, sunrise 
found her there still. Her maid 
came to the door. Athalie unbolted 
it. “Come, dress me, quickly, Sal- 
lie ! Any news from the men ?” 

“No, madam, no news yet. Law ! 

3 


didn’t it sound frightful all night to 
hear the whistle blowin’ every hour ? 
an’ it is blowin’ still. Gracious me! 
I hope they hears it out in them big 
woods.” 

“ I suppose they can,” said Atha- 
lie, wistfully. “ Give Tom this five- 
dollar note, and tell him to blow it 
as loud as he can.” 

Mr. Foster told Mrs. Dulany that 
the party had kept together nearly 
all day, and had pretty fair sport ; 
they had killed four large deer; and 
that towards sunset he was riding 
near to Col. Yon Lingard when a 
herd of wild swine dashed past them, 
started by the dogs ; that Lingard 
started off in pursuit, excited by the 
chase. He had just been talking of 
wild-boar hunting in Europe. Mr. 
Foster said he stood up in his stir- 
rups, and called as loudly as he 
could, “Yon Lingard, don’t go ; it 
is dangerous hunting such a herd of 
wild hogs, and it is time to go 
home!” Yon Lingard turned and 
waved his hand, crying out, as he 
urged his horse in the pursuit, “ I’ll 
be with you in ten minutes ; just let 
me take one shot at this huge old 
boar !” 

Foster said he halted and stayed 
where he was, expecting to hear Yon 
Lingard’s shot, and to see him re- 
turning, but he did not come back. 
He halloed, fired off his gun, blew 
his horn — afraid to move, and yet 
anxious to search for his missing 
companion. His shots and his horn 
brought all the rest of the scattered 
members of the hunt to him, but not 
Yon Lingard. Then the others had 
started to search for the colonel, 
marking their paths as they rode, 
so as to rejoin Foster. They had 
searched as far as they dared until 
nightfall, when they all gathered 
again around Mr. Foster to hold a 


34 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


council. Then they decided they 
could do no more that night, and 
they would go home and renew their 
search at daybreak. But Louis 
Stilman said he would not quit the 
woods. So he took some crackers 
and a canteen of whiskey, and said 
he was going to continue looking 
and shooting all night, if possible : 
the moon would rise at one o’clock, 
and he had eyes like a panther. So 
they had left him, considering him 
very obstinate and very unwise. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Louis Stilman knew that he 
could trust his own skill in wood- 
craft. He had been brought up al- 
most on the edge of this forest, and 
knew every landmark in it. He 
knew the sloughs and lakes and 
bayous. He was an old and expe- 
rienced scout, and well accustomed 
to prowling about in the darkness. 
So, taking the bearings of the place 
where Mr. Foster had last seen Von 
Lingard, he started out, as soon as 
the hoof-beats of the party died 
away, to search on his “own hook” 
He had still an hour of dim twilight. 
He rode as long as he could see the 
hoof-prints of Von Lingard’s horse ; 
then they were lost at the margin of 
a deep bayou, thickly bordered with 
short, tufted grass. There was no 
sign on either side of the bayou. 
Louis rode up and down, then swam 
his horse across and examined the 
other side. Ho sign. The bottom 
of the bayou was boggy in spots. 

“I hope to God he has not got 
into quicksand !” muttered Louis to 
himself, after riding for a hundred 


yards on either side of the bayou 
in both directions. He sat on his 
horse to think. There were the 
hoof-prints on the other side, lead- 
ing down into the water, and there 
they ended. 

Louis got off his horse and fast- 
ened him to a bush ; then, taking 
off his coat, climbed up into a tree 
which overhung the stream at an 
angle of nearly forty-five degrees. 
He crawled out upon the very 
top, and lying flat down, he gazed 
up and down the bayou. About 
three hundred yards below, he saw 
that the bayou branched into two 
forks around a small island thickly 
filled with bushes and set with long 
grasses. The vegetation looked 
thick and undisturbed, but Louis, 
gazing with the keen sight of one 
habituated to watching, and with 
educated vision, fancied he saw 
symptoms of the grass being crushed 
down on the hither side of the is- 
land. Getting down carefully from 
his reconnoitering position — not by 
any means either a safe or an agree- 
able one, for he had to lie flat along 
a not very stout tree-top — Louis 
swung himself back to terra jirma , 
mounted his horse, and rode down 
the bayou until he got opposite the 
island. He was convinced the grass 
had been trampled down. Taking 
off his clothes, and fastening them 
on his horse firmly, he seized the 
bridle and drove the horse into the 
stream ; then, plunging in himself, 
holding the bridle in his teeth, he 
and the horse soon swam over the 
narrow water. As Louis set his 
feet on the island, he recognized 
again “ hoof-marks,” clear and dis- 
tinct, amid a number of hog-tracks. 
They led down the island to the 
lower end, where a huge log lay 
across the other fork of the bayou, 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


35 


forming an extemporized bridge to 
the main land or ridge opposite. 
Here, again, the hoof-marks ceased, 
as^ well of hogs as of the horse. 

“ So,” said Louis, “ he has fol- 
lowed the hogs. They dashed into 
the bayou ; so did he, not knowing 
how deep it was ; the hogs turned 
to the island, being pursued, and he 
has swum after them : he could not 
help it after getting in the water — 
the horse was probably unmanage- 
able, the current strong, and he a 
heavy man. They have all reached 
the island, because the horse-tracks 
have still followed the hogs down 
the island. No horse would have 
done that, if not ridden. The horse 
would have stopped to eat these rank 
grasses if Yon Lingard had not been 
on his back. There was some effort 
to get up this bank, at any rate, I 
see ; then the hogs have taken the 
water again, and gone over to the 
other ridge, and Yon Lingard has 
gone over, too. Let’s see 1 I shall 
walk over the log, and swim the 
horse.” 

Louis did it. Sure enough, on the 
opposite shore he found the marks 
quite fresh again. He stopped, put 
his clothes on — beginning to feel 
chilled from the cold air of night, 
now fast coming on ; then he walked 
forward, leading the horse, carefully 
observing the foot-marks, stooping 
down to feel them when it began to 
grow so dark he could not see them 
distinctly. They led him on a half 
mile further, when, suddenly turning 
a small canebrake and thick brier 
patch, he saw, quietly feeding a few 
yards in advance of him, Mrs. Du- 
lany’s iron-gray carriage-horse, with 
saddle and bridle still upon him. 
Raising his voice in a loud halloo, 
Louis called, “Yon Lingard, where 
are you ?” He heard a faint reply 


on the farther side of the canebrake. 
Crashing through the thicket, Louis 
got to the place near where the voice 
sounded. “Where ?” he called. 

“ Here !” responded the feeble 
voice of Yon Lingard. Louis has- 
tened to the spot. 

Yon Lingard was lying with his 
head half supported by a tree, pale 
and fainting. 

* “Good God !” exclaimed Louis, 
“ Yon Lingard, what is the matter ? 
and how did you get to this infernal 
place ?” 

Yon Lingard said feebly, “Give 
me some water !” 

Louis took off his canteen, poured 
some water and a little whiskey in 
it, and gave it to Yon Lingard. He 
drank it feverishly, gulping it down 
in long swallows. 

“ There !” he said, when Louis 
took the tin cup away from his lips, 
“ I feel better ; but I am bleeding 
to death, I think. The wound in 
my leg — see ! I tried to bind it with 
my handkerchief, but it is bleeding 
terribly. The boar struck me with his 
tusk, but I killed him ; there he is.” 

Louis saw, about fifty yards off, 
the dead wild boar, a huge animal, 
with formidable tusks. But he had 
not time to look long at it. Yon 
Lingard groaned and turned white 
again. 

“ For God’s sake, Stilman ! can’t 
you close the wound better ?” Louis 
threw his horse’s bridle over a 
branch. 

“In one minute, Yon Lingard ! 
I can’t see — it is too dark. I’ll 
have a fire in a minute.” 

Louis ran and gathered an armful 
of dry moss from a tree near by, an- 
other of dry leaves, then a few bits 
of old dry branches, then with his 
powerful arms he heaved a large log 
lying near by clear around by one 


36 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


end, and piled these combustibles 
against it, then, taking his gun, he 
shot into the heap, once — twice ; 
a slender coil of smoke rose from 
the pile. Louis knelt and fanned it 
with his hat until a light flame burst 
out. Throwing some more branches 
on the blaze, he soon had a bril- 
liant flame, an enormous bonfire, 
which made the dark forest brilliant 
and light as day. 

Yon Lingard lay with his eyes 
closed, his lips very pallid. Louis 
came and lifted him up. “Can you 
help yourself at all, Yon Lingard ? 
I want to get you close to the fire. 
Put your arms about my neck. I 
can drag you so, if I can’t lift you.” 

Yon Lingard put his arms about 
Louis’s neck, and Louis half lifted, 
half dragged him close to the fire, 
beside which he had made a bed of 
moss, and over it he had thrown his 
saddle-blanket. Yon Lingard sank 
down, faint from his effort. Louis 
laid him carefully down on the heap. 

“ Take a little more whiskey and 
water. Now, then, let’s see the leg ! ” 

Louis found his left limb badly 
torn, and bleeding still very profuse- 
ly. He untied the handkerchief 
which Yon Lingard had fastened on. 

“ If you had tied it tightly above 
the knee,” said Louis, “ it would 
have done more good ; and that is 
what I shall do. I am surgeon 
enough to know that.” 

Taking a bit of stick, Louis tied 
the handkerchief above the knee, and 
passing the stick into the knot, he 
made a tourniquet of it, drawing it 
tightly, until the blood ceased to 
flow. He waited a few minutes to 
see if it had ceased to flow from the 
wound. 

“ I think it does not bleed now,” 
said Louis. “Now, then, for a little 
more surgery ! It is well for you 


I have got my little soldier pincush- 
ion along, that you all laughed so at 
this morning.” 

Louis washed off the wound with 
a little water, so that he could ex- 
amine it, which he did very care- 
fully. Lifting his head at last, with 
a sigh of relief, he said, “ Well, it is 
not an artery, thank God ! and I 
can manage a flesh w r ound. An 
eighth of an inch more, and the 
beast would have struck an artery, 
and you would have been done for, 
Yon Lingard 1 But as it is, it will 
soon be well. I attended much worse 
wounds when in the army.” 

While Louis talked so much more 
than his wont, to encourage his pa- 
tient, he had got out his silk thread 
and needle and bits of sticking plas- 
ter. Yon Lingard winced when the 
sharp needle went into his leg, but 
he set his teeth together and uttered 
not a sigh even until Louis had 
stitched up the long wound. Louis 
then laid occasional bits of plaster 
over the wound, then took his own 
handkerchief, his cravat and Yon 
Lingard’s, and joining them togeth- 
er, tearing the handkerchief into 
strips, he made a tolerable bandage. 
Then he cut the bloody clothing off 
the wounded limb and threw it 
away. Then he put his saddle, cov- 
ered with his own coat, under Yon 
Lingard’s head, spread his thick 
poncho over him, and stirred up the 
fire. 

“ Now,” said Louis, 11 if you will 
be quiet and try to sleep a few' min- 
utes, I’ll picket the horses and pre- 
pare for the night.” 

“ How did you find me ?” asked 
Yon Lingard, faintly. “You have 
saved my life.” 

“Well,” replied Louis, “I am 
glad enough to find you. Go to 
sleep. You can hear all about it 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


3T 


to-morrow morning as well as to- 
night.” 

Yon Lingard closed his eyes. He 
was extremely exhausted, and the 
dressing of the wound, and the cool 
wet bandages Louis had laid upon 
it, soothed him. The fire and the 
thick blankets warmed him. He 
saw Louis moving quietly about, 
picketing the horses at a little dis- 
tance off, so they would not disturb 
Yon Lingard by their champing and 
feeding through the night. Then 
Louis came back and looked at Yon 
Lingard by the blazing fire-light. 

“He is asleep! Lucky for him 
that I was obstinate to-night,” 
thought Louis. Then he thought 
of Mrs. Dulany’s comfortable house 
and the disturbed party who were 
sitting around her hospitable hearth 
at this very hour. 

“I wish I had some of her good 
tea for this poor fellow,” thought 
Louis. “Well, sassafras will an- 
swer on a pinch, or spicewood, if 1 
can find it, just as well or better. 
I think I saw a spicewood tree the 
other side of this canebrake.” 

Louis vanished now from out the 
circle of fire-light, but soon returned 
bearing in his hand a branch of 
glassy green leaves. “ The next 
thing is to get something to boil 
some water to make tea in,” said 
he. “ I have made clay bowls be- 
fore now of this white clay. If I 
can find only a black jack ridge, 
there’ll be good white clay not far 
off. There is always plenty of clay 
in these second bottom lands — real 
kaolin.” He took a blazing torch 
from the fire, and prowled around 
for some little time, until he came 
across some clay. He then walked 
back to the bayou, got some water 
in his thick felt hat, sat down by the 
fire, and soon had kneaded the clay 


with his fingers into the consistency 
he desired. Then he moulded a sort 
of rough bowl out of it. “ It will 
bake while I take a nap,” thought 
Louis, “ but I might as well have a 
soup-pot and a clay pipe out of it. 
I have only three cigars left ; I shall 
have to make some kinnikinnick of 
them. And I’ll need two flat tops 
for my pots.” He completed his 
pottery-ware, raked aside the cin- 
ders, carefully depositing his clay 
bowls and rough-looking pipe in the 
hot ashes ; then he piled on the 
glowing coals and wood all over his 
extemporized furnace. “ Now, bake ! 
but not too fast,” said Louis. “Now, 
there’s sumach and willow to be got- 
ten for my kinnikinnick ! I’ll go 
back to the bayou ; there’s willow 
there, and sumach I saw near by.” 
He gathered his willow and su- 
mach. Glancing at a gleaming tree- 
trunk, as he passed back to the fire, 
“ Hickory chicken, and plenty of 
it !” he exclaimed. Taking out his 
knife, he cut off a quantity of this 
delicious edible lichen, which Con- 
federate soldiers all know so well. 
“ That’s fine !” said he, as he de- 
posited his acquisitions near the 
fire. 

Louis, putting his twigs of sumach 
and willow in a safe place to dry by 
the warmth, looked around to see if 
there was nothing more to be done. 
Yon Lingard was asleep. Louis 
took a parcel of Spanish moss and 
threw over his shoulders, which felt 
rather cool without his coat, put his 
head on Yon Lingard’s saddle, stuck 
his feet close to the fire, folded his 
arms over his breast, and went to 
sleep. He could sleep like a cat — 
just when and so long as he liked. 
In his dreams he went back into 
Mrs. Dulany’s parlor. “ Miss Ellen 
has the trump,” he muttered. “ It 


38 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


is the Queen of Hearts ! Don’t you 
see ?” 

“Sleep like oblivion came over all.” 

The moon rose clear and full. 
Her rays, striking full on Louis’s 
face, roused him. He sat up, rub- 
bing his eyes, not realizing, for the 
moment, his situation. He had been 
dreaming of his old camp-life remi- 
niscences, awakened by the necessi- 
ties of the present moment. The 
fire had burnt low, and he was rather 
cold, too. He rose and heaped on 
more wood, and then turned to take 
a look at Yon Lingard, who was 
still asleep, from exhaustion as much 
as anything else. A slight frown 
would contract his brow from time 
to time, as if his leg was giving him 
pain. Louis lifted the heavy poncho 
from the leg, and dripped with his 
hands a little water upon the band- 
age, so gently he did not wake his 
patient. Louis was an experienced 
nurse for the wounded. The con- 
traction passed away from Yon Lin- 
gard’s forehead. The water cooled 
the fever of the wound. Replacing 
the heavy poncho so that it would 
not press upon the wound, Louis 
turned to the fire. “ I think I’ll 
examine my porcelain furnace,” he 
said to himself. He raked away the 
ashes and burnt-out cinders. He 
found his earthenware of a glowing 
red. “So! that’s good 1” muttered 
Louis. “ Now, get cool, will you ? 
I might as well fix some tea to boil, 
and put on my soup and let it sim- 
mer down. It will be all the better 
for cooking slowly until daybreak.” 

Louis took his hunting-knife and 
skinned a portion of the boar that 
was lying not far distant, cut off 
some neat collops to barbecue, then 
a good piece of lean meat, without 
any fat, for his projected soup. He 
washed his “lichen” very carefully. 


Then he examined his branches of 
spicewood for the tea, and the 
sumach and willow for his kinnikin- 
nick. Finding his bowls not yet 
cool enough for use, he employed 
himself in rubbingup his three cigars, 
his willow and sumach. Then mix- 
ing it thoroughly, he piled it up on 
a broad dwarf- palmetto leaf for use. 
He had already used a large fan- 
shaped leaf as a platter for his raw 
meat. By the time the kinnikinnick 
was made, the two bowls were cool 
enough to use. They were not very 
symmetrical in proportions, but they 
held water, and that was all Louis 
had aspired to. He put water on 
to boil in both, and as soon as it 
boiled, he put a good handful of 
spicewood or yupon leaves in one, 
and laid his tile-shaped top closely 
over it, so that the leaves could 
steep. Then he shredded bits of 
meat and portions of “hickory 
chicken” into the other bowl, add- 
ing a cracker or two to the mass to 
give it a little flavor of salt, and to 
make it more nutritious. Then he 
put the tile on that bowl, and set it 
carefully on some dull embers to 
stew slowly. 

Louis sat near the fire, on the end 
of one of the burning logs, after he had 
finished his small domestic arrange- 
ments, with his arms folded, occa- 
sionally pushing the logs closer into 
the fire with his foot. He was try- 
ing to plan some way to get Yon 
Lingard home the following day. 

“ He can’t ride, that’s certain ; 
nor walk, either. And I can’t leave 
him, to summon assistance ; and we 
can’t stay here. I could live in the 
woods for a week alone ; but with 
a wounded man, it is not to be 
thought of. If I can only find a 
linn-tree, to-morrow morning, I 
think I can manage to fix some sort 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIA TURA . 


39 


of a sled, and his horse is a carriage- 
horse, fortunately, accustomed to 
drawing weights. I think I can rig 
up something !” 

Louis felt rather cool about the 
shoulders without his coat, so he 
preferred sitting up over the fire to 
going to sleep again, as it was near 
daybreak. He sat staring into the 
fitful flame, thinking over his short 
but eventful life, when Yon Lingard 
stirred, groaning from the pain of 
his wound. 

“ Hallo 1 Yon Lingard,” called 
out Louis, “ leg hurt much, old 
fellow ?” 

“ It hurts a good deal,” replied 
Yon Lingard. “ It is so stiff, and 
I am thirsty as der Teufel 1” 

Louis laughed. “ I expect you 
are. Well, I have a cup of tea for you 
— the best thing you could have any- 
where ! but it is without sugar. If it 
was daybreak, I might find a wild bee- 
hive, and get you some honey, or, at 
any rate, some pods of honey-locust. 
But not being able to see distinctly, 
you’ll have to drink it sans sucre.” 

“ I never take sugar in my tea,” 
said Yon Lingard, “ so it is all right 
for me, without.” 

“ Well, here it is.” Louis slipped 
the tile off his bowl of spicewood, 
and dipped the cup of his drinking- 
flask into the steaming, aromatic 
liquid. 

“ Take care ! it is boiling hot,” 
said Louis, cooling it with his 
breath. He gave it to Yon Lin- 
gard, who drank it eagerly. 

“ That is delicious, Louis,” he 
said; “do give me some more, if 
you can 1” 

“ Give you as much as you like ! ” 
said Louis, gayly. “ Lots of my 
tea-plant grows in these woods, and 
there is the bayou full of water, and 
plenty of logs for firewood, so drink 


ten gallons, if you like, ‘ mein guter 
kammerad . ’ ” 

Louis refilled the little can, and 
handed it to Yon Lingard, who sip- 
ped it as if he liked the flavor. 

“ What is it, Louis ?” he asked. 

“ It is the yupon or spicewood, a 
good substitute for tea, as we Con- 
federates found, and a most admira- 
ble febrifuge. Now, if you feel 
hungry, Yon Lingard, as I expect 
you do, I will give you a cup of 
broth. Here is a possible spoon, 
which I have manufactured from a 
joint of cane, which you will have 
to make the best of.” 

Louis took up his hot soup bowl 
by using a thick handful of moss to 
shield his hands, and transported it 
to Yon Lingard’s side, then he gave 
him the long slit joint of cane to eat 
it with. “ Here’s a cracker out of 
my pocket,” said Louis. 

Yon Lingard leaned on one arm, 
and after a few experimental at- 
tempts succeeded in conveying a 
mouthful of the hot, savory soup 
into his parched mouth. Louis 
smiled when he smacked his lips. 

“ Why ! what is this ? It has the 
flavor of oysters and mushrooms; 
very peculiar, but very nice 1” 

“ That,” replied Louis, “ is a 
Southern delicacy called ‘ hickory 
chicken,’ and a bit of your wild 
boar, stewed together.” 

“Hickory chicken! Well, it is 
very good. I like it better than 
real chicken.” 

“ It is an edible lichen,” said 
Louis. 

“ Louis, how full of resources 
you are! It surprises me!” said 
Yon Lingard, still eating his soup 
and munching his cracker. “You 
have really furnished me with a 
most comfortable breakfast.” 

Louis laughed. “ Pshaw ! Any 


40 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


Confederate soldier could have given 
you such a breakfast in these for- 
ests. I lived once for a week on 
hickory chicken while in the array, 
and in North Carolina never had 
anything else to drink except yupon 
sweetened with honey. But now as 
you are awake and have breakfasted, 
tell me your adventure, while I pre- 
pare and eat my breakfast.” 

Louis stuck his collops of boar’s 
meat on pointed sticks, and set them 
up before the fire to cook. As fast 
as they cooked on one side, he would 
turn them on the other until he had 
them nicely browned and crisp. 

Yon Lingard watched him with 
curiosity, then when Louis had got- 
ten a fresh palmetto leaf and laid 
his hot collops on it, and began his 
repast with an additional cracker 
and a portion of the bowl of soup, 
Yon Lingard told him that he had 
dashed after the herd of wild hogs, 
and followed them into the bayou, 
not knowing it to be so deep, as 
they had forded so many sloughs 
during the day. He had plunged 
his horse boldly in. The hogs 
turned towards the little island, and 
his horse, finding a current in the 
bayou, swam that way too, and he 
had scrambled up on the island, 
still following the hogs, then across 
the arm of the bayou to the side 
from which he had started. The 
hogs were making a detour. After 
reaching the other side of the bayou, 
he had shot once and struck the 
large boar. It ran back towards 
him and frightened his horse, so 
that he swerved as Yon Lingard 
fired a second time. Springing off 
his horse in order to take better 
aim, he fired once more. The boar 
charged him with great fury. He 
sprang aside, missing the blow of 
the tusk, and loaded again as rapidly 


as he could. He lifted his gun 
again, and again the boar charged. 
His gun snapped fire in one barrel, 
and the beast struck him in the leg. 
Then, as is customary with the ani- 
mal, it ran off beyond to make 
another charge, when, as he felt 
himself sinking from the blood flow- 
ing out of the wound, he had fired 
at random, and the shot struck 
the hog, which fell dead just as 
he fainted away from weakness. 
When he came to himself, he had 
made an effort to bind up his leg 
with his pocket-handkerchief. He 
tried then to get to his horse, but 
it had strayed off beyond his pow- 
er of pursuit — “ and I should have 
died here, Stilman, but for you, I 
truly believe !” 

“ No !” said Louis. “ The for- 
est would have been scoured to-day 
until you were discovered, dead or 
alive, but you would have suffered a 
great deal more than you will now. 
I expect there are men searching 
for us now. I have certainly heard 
all through the night at intervals 
the whistle of Mrs. Dulany’s gin- 
house engine. She would not rest, 
with us in the woods. I hope some 
of the men may reach us, but as 
soon as it grows light enough to see 
I shall try to rig up a sled to haul 
you home on, for you can’t ride.” 

“ How can you manage that ?” 
asked Yon Lingard. 

“ If I can find a linn-tree and 
get some bark, I can do it easily, as 
you shall see. But see ! The beasts 
of prey are attracted by the scent 
of that dead boar ! The wolves 
have been prowling about all night, 
but they were afraid to venture in 
the fire-light 1 Have you not heard 
them howl ?” 

“I thought I did !” replied Yon 
Lingard. “Good heavens 1” he 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


41 


continued, shudderingly, “if you 
hadn’t been here they might have 
set on me, attracted by my blood !” 

“ Not while you were alive. They 
are great cowards unless they are 
very, very hungry ; but there are 
worse enemies than wolves in these 
forests. See, in the corner of the 
canebrake, the glittering eyes ; that 
is a wild-cat 1 I will shoot it 1” 

Stepping forward within pistol 
range, Louis drew his pistol and 
fired, the creature gave a shrill 
scream, sprang forward, and rolled 
over and over, fiercely tearing the 
ground with its sharp claws in its 
death-agony. When it was dead, 
Louis picked it up by the bushy tail 
and carried it to Von Lingard. 

“ See, its skin will make you a 
cap, and be a souvenir, if you want 
one of this delectable night !” 

Yon Lingard laughed. “I don’t 
think I shall need any souvenir ; but 
I shall like to have the skin for a 
cap.” 

Just then Louis was attracted by 
a snort of terror from the horses, 
which he had picketed at a short 
distance near a group of trees. 
They were pulling away from their 
stakes, and one was crouching near- 
ly to the ground, squatting like a 
hare. 

“ Good Lord I” exclaimed Louis, 
springing to seize his gun, which 
was lying near ready loaded, and 
thrusting Yon Lingard’s gun into 
his hands, together with a cartridge, 
“ here’s a beast ! Look at that 
horse ! There is a panther about 1” 

“A panther !” 

“Yes, a panther! Look sharp, 
Yon Lingard ! No one knows 
where he will spring. I don’t see 
him«yet. Yes, now I do. In that 
tree justJbeyond the horse. Don’t 
you see nis eyes? You can’t see 


the body. He is crouched on that 
large branch. Steady now !” 

Louis strode forward and fired 
first one barrel, then the other, into 
the tree. The panther sprang out. 
Louis leaped aside, snatched Yon 
Lingard’s gun out of his hands, and 
fired again. The panther had stop- 
ped an instant to gather himself for 
another spring. The last shot hit 
him. He stopped, and turning bit 
at the wound. Louis fired again, 
hitting him in the fore shoulder, as 
his head was turned. The panther 
screamed in rage and fell, but tot- 
tered up. 

“ Load up, Yon Lingard,” said 
Louis, kneeling down, with his hunt- 
ing-knife unsheathed and bare in 
his hand. “ If he springs, I will 
take him with this, but get the gun 
ready. You can use your hands.” 

Yon Lingard loaded as fast as he 
could. The panther gathered up 
its strength and made a desperate 
spring. Louis caught the blow on 
his arm, and in an instant drove his 
knife up to the hilt in the creature’s 
body. The panther tore his shirt- 
sleeves, and then fell off to the 
ground, dying. 

“ Give me the gun ! These 
beasts are dangerous to the last 
breath of life,” said Louis. Tak- 
ing the gun, now reloaded, Louis 
jumped back and put the muzzle to 
the panther’s open mouth, as it was 
screaming and grinning with rage, 
and fired down its throat. It was 
killed instantly. 

“ Whew !” said Louis, “ I’m glad 
that’s over !” He sat down and 
wiped his face on his sleeve. 

“ Did it tear your arm ?” asked 
Yon Lingard, anxiously. 

“ No ; gave me a; scratch or two 
— just drew blood. The woollen 
shirt and knitted undershirt saved 


42 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


me. He is a noble fellow, though, 
Yon Lingard ! His skin is worth 
taking back ! As soon as I get 
rested, I’ll skin him and the wild- 
cat. By the time I get through, it 
ought to be daybreak. Better keep 
the guns loaded, though ! You can 
load both; here are the cartridges.” 

Louis handed the guns and the 
pistol to Yon Lingard to reload, 
and then, rolling up his sleeves, he 
began to skin the panther and wild- 
cat, which he accomplished secundum 
artem. Yon Lingard was so much 
interested in watching him that he 
nearly forgot the pain of his wound. 
Louis had gotten through his self- 
imposed task of flaying the wild 
beasts, and had hung the skins up 
on the branch of a tree, as the first 
rays of sunlight crept through the 
tree-tops. 

“Thank God! here’s daylight,” 
exclaimed Louis. He hastened to 
the bayou to wash his hands and 
arms — an ablution was extremely 
necessary under present circum- 
stances — and then went off to look 
for a linn-tree. He found a large 
one. Taking his sharp hunting- 
knife, he reached his hands up 
higher than his head, and drew a 
line of circumvallation around the 
smooth trunk, cutting it over and 
over until he had cut down to the 
sap-wood of the tree; then he scored 
the bark longitudinally in strips of 
two inches wide ; then inserting the 
point of his knife, he peeled the 
bark off. It lay all around the tree 
in long narrow slips. He gath- 
ered them up by one end, and, al- 
lowing the rest to trail, he dragged 
the bundle of flexible strips near to 
the fire. 

“ What are you going to do with 
that, Louis ?” asked Yon Lingard, 
with curiosity. 


“ Make wattling for a cane sled,” 
replied Louis. 

His next movement was to secure 
two small logs of nearly equal size 
and length. 

“ If I had only a hatchet,” sighed 
Louis, “ of even a decent tomahawk 
— but I shall have to make out with 
our hunting-knives. Fortunately, 
mine is a large bowie, and of best 
steel. Now for the cane !” * 

Louis attacked the cane thicket, 
and soon had a dozen large, stout 
canes lying in a row, all stripped 
of their leaves and sprouts, and 
chopped off to about ten feet in 
length. He placed his two logs 
on the ground, about three feet 
apart, chopped out a bit from near 
the ends of both logs ; into these he 
fitted two smaller poles, and then he 
tied these four pieces of wood firmly 
with his grass rope, laid his canes 
carefully on the top of his cross- 
pieces, put two other poles over 
these, and tied them firmly together. 
Then he took his linn-bark strips 
and wattled the cane from end to 
end. He got a strong pole and tied 
it in the middle of the end he in- 
tended for the front of his sled. He 
tied on cross-pieces for swingletrees, 
and then with the bridle-reins, sad- 
dle-girths and grape-vines, and some 
bits of rope he had left, he manu- 
factured a rough harness, into which 
he fastened the two horses, who were 
accustomed to pulling draughts. 
He gathered a quantity of moss 
and heaped it on the sled, then he 
laid the skins of the wild beasts on 
the moss, his poncho over that, put- 
ting both saddles on the head of the 
sled as a pillow, and then he said to 
Yon Lingard, “You had better 
take a little more soup, and a drop 
of whiskey and water, and we had 
better make a start. It is getting 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGG1ATURA. 


43 


late in the day, and we have at least 
twelve miles or more to go. I am 
afraid you will find it rough, es- 
pecially in the woods, but it is the 
best we can do, and after five miles 
I think we will strike a plain wagon 
road used for hauling wood, which 
will be smoother. ” 

Louis drove the sled near to Yon 
Lingard, and lifting the wounded 
man in his arms, he aided him to get 
upon the sled, which was accom- 
plished with a little effort and winc- 
ing on the part of Yon Lingard. 
Louis arranged him as comfortably 
as he could on the sled, put the 
wounded limb in good position, 
wetted the bandages, laid his can- 
teen of whiskey and water where Yon 
Lingard could reach it, spread the 
blanket he had been lying on over 
him, then, taking the bridle of the 
near horse in his hand close to the 
jaw, he gave the word and a touch 
of a long cane, and the sled began 
to move. Yon Lingard set his 
teeth hard at the first rough pull, 
but Louis moderated the steps of 
the horses, and they proceeded at a 
slow, steady walk through the open 
forest. In places where the road 
was not clear, Louis would halt the 
horses and go before, smoothing 
away obstructions as well as he 
could. They got on slowly, but still 
they got on, and Yon Lingard’s 
courage rose, though his strength 
declined. Louis talked as gayly as 
he could. Yon Lingard was sur- 
prised at the brightness of his mind, 
and the extent of knowledge dis- 
played by the “silent scout.” He 
made some allusion to Louis’s great 
talent for silence “ in society.” 

Louis laughed. “ The truth is, 
Yon Lingard, I never knew how to 
talk to women. They always abash 
me, especially that splendid Mrs. 


Deslondes. She is so beautiful and 
dazzling, it takes a man’s breath 
away to look at her ! ” 

“ So it does and Yon Lingard 
fell into a reverie, which was dis- 
turbed by Louis remarking, 

“ You’ll be a hero to all those 
women, when I get you home, Yon 
Lingard. They’ll pet and coddle 
you to death.” 

“A very sweet sort of death to 
die 1 ” laughed Yon Lingard. “Not 
an unpleasant anticipation; but the 
truth is, Louis, you are the real hero 
of my adventure. I got myself into 
great trouble, and you got me out.” 

“ Pshaw ! they won’t think that. 
They’ll never think to notice me. 
I’m very well ; not wounded, nor 
even very tired. Yes, there’s one 
besides Mrs. Dulany who may notice 
me,” and Louis thought of Ellen 
Fortier. 

Louis had gotten the sled out of 
the woods into the wagon road be- 
fore sunset. “ Now,” he said, “ we 
are all right. I have been guided 
by the sound of the gin-whistle, so 
far. Now I know where we are.” 

“ Hist ! I hear a horn, and a gun 
fired on the left,” said Yon Lingard. 

“ Yes, they are out searching for 
us. Give me a gun, Yon Lingard.” 
Taking the gun and stepping to one 
side, Louis fired quickly two shots 
in succession. Then, taking his 
horn, he blew the tattoo call. 

“ They’ll know that, if it is Mr. 
Foster or Benny,” he said. 

Louis was right. They had not 
gone a mile further before a white 
horse dashed through the bushes, 
and Benny was before them, across 
the road, on Odalisque. He gave a 
cheerful “hurrah I” when he recog- 
nized Louis, but his face fell when 
he saw the sled with Yon Lingard 
extended on it. 


44 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


“Good Lord! is lie dead, Lou- 
is ?” Benny exclaimed. 

“ Not quite,” responded Yon Lin- 
gard. “ Would have been but for 
Louis, though.” 

Benny sprang off his horse, and 
grasped Yon Lingard’s hands in 
both his. 

“ Don’t shake too hard, Benny,” 
said Yon Lingard. “ I’m rather 
fragile just at present.” 

Benny put his horn to his lips, 
and blew a loud, merry recall. 
“ Mr. Foster and some of the men 
are not far off,” he said. “ I heard 
their horns only a few minutes 
since.” 

Benny’s call was replied to from 
different points in the forest, and 
soon man after man emerged from 
the dark forest, all full of eager cu- 
riosity and interest. Some had been 
searching all night. 

Mr. Foster was overjoyed. He 
had been very self-reproachful about 
letting Louis stay alone during the 
night. There was a hubbub of voices 
round the sled — laughing, rejoicing, 
congratulating voices — and clearly 
through it all, every half hour, 
whooped the gin-whistle a sad, 
plaintive cry. 

“ Those women are scared to death 
about you and Louis ! ” said old Mr. 
Foster. “ I never saw Rosalthe 
more anxious, and as for the others, 
they are just crazy with apprehen- 
sion ! But now what are we to do, 
Louis ? You must be worn out ! 
Let me, or Benny, or one of the 
men, lead the horses and sled, and 
you take my horse.” 

“No, mine !” said Benny, spring- 
ing from Odalisque, seizing hold of 
the bridle of the carriage-horse from 
Louis’s hand. 

“ Well, let another man go to the 
other side, then. It will be steadier, 


and I’ll ride and overlook you,” 
said Louis. 

Louis vaulted on Odalisque. Ben- 
ny and one of the men guided the 
sled, and the procession moved on. 
It reached Mrs. Dulany’s house 
about nine o’clock at night. The 
ladies were all on the veranda, 
awaiting them. Louis had request- 
ed Mr. Foster to gallop on in ad- 
vance and explain everything, so as 
not alarm them unnecessarily. Mrs. 
Dulany and Emma and Arthur 
rushed to the gate to meet the sled. 
They greeted Yon Lingard eagerly 
and warmly, asking a thousand 
questions. Then four men lifted the 
colonel up by the corners of the 
blanket, and bore him steadily and 
gently into the house, into his own 
apartment. Yon Lingard saw Atha- 
lie’s beautiful face, convulsed with 
emotion, bend over him for a mo- 
ment, and then he fainted away, 
perfectly exhausted with fatigue. 
The doctor was sent for, and pre- 
scribed perfect quiet and rest. Mrs. 
Dulany ordered everybody out of 
the colonel’s apartment, except her- 
self and Arthur Lalande, and they 
two shared the watches of that night. 
But once, leaving the room during 
the night, Mrs. Dulany caught 
glimpse of a dark-robed slight figure 
stealing hastily away. Evidently it 
had been watching outside of the 
door. Mrs. Dulany attended to the 
matter she had come out to see after, 
and then went through the hall into 
the wing where Athalie’s room was 
situated. A dim light burned there. 
She entered the room. Athalie had 
thrown herself down on her knees 
by the bed, and lay with her gleam- 
ing white arms stretched out, her 
hands clasped, and her head buried 
in the coverlet, smothering her sobs. 

“Athalie,” said Mrs. Dulany, 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIATURA. 


45 


sternly, “Athalie, get up. Go to bed! 
This is no way for you to be acting. 
Do you wish to make a scandal ?” 

Athalie lifted her head up, and 
turning her tear-stained face towards 
Mrs. Dulany, said, 

“ Rosalthe, I’m past caring for 
anything ! Tell me, will he die?” 

“ He ? No ! No idea of his 
dying — it is only a flesh wound. 
He’ll be up in a few days. For 
God’s sake, Athalie, consider your- 
self — don’t expose yourself to all 
the world and even to his contempt 
by any folly now, which you will be 
the first to regret. Here, let me 
take your hair down, and get into 
bed. I’ll bring you some bromide 
of potassium to put you to sleep. 
You are wretchedly nervous!” 

Mrs. Dulany took the combs and 
pins out of Athalie’s glittering hair, 
and half lifted her into bed. Then she 
poured a few drops from a tiny vial, 
and put it to her lips. 

“ Drink !” she said ; “I have just 
given Col. Yon Lingard a good 
dose of it.” 

Athalie drank it off without a 
word. She had yielded in silence 
to Mrs. Dulany’s commands as 
meekly as a child ; now she crossed 
her hands on her bosom and closed 
her eyes. Mrs. Dulany sat by her, 
softly passing her hand over her 
bright hair, until Athalie’s regular 
breathing showed that she really 
slept without feigning. Then Mrs. 
Dulany went back to Arthur and 
the colonel, her heart full of trouble. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Col. Yon Lingard was most care- 
fully nursed by Mrs. Dulany, who 
was very tender and skilful in a 


sick-room. Her step was so light, 
her touch so gentle and so velvety, 
her voice so low and so pleasantly 
toned, and yet with all the exquisite 
gentleness of her manner and tem- 
per one felt that there was a steel 
mainspring in her will. She was 
firm and decided, as one always 
should be with sick people, and 
though iufinitely considerate, she 
was never weakly indulgent. Col. 
Yon Lingard began to understand 
in his two weeks’ close confinement 
to his own bed the reasons for the 
implicit faith and confidence, as well 
as for the inexpressibly tender love 
Mrs. Dulany’s friends all manifested 
towards her. She was a strong 
woman, but perfectly feminine, ma- 
king no effort at masculine affec- 
tations. She valued her woman- 
hood highly. She reverenced her 
own sex. She had her ideal of wo- 
manhood, and she lived up to it. It 
taxed her every power to its utmost 
to do this. She never unsexed her- 
self, and her friendship was most 
highly valued and sought after by 
noble men as well as by noble wo- 
men. Mrs. Dulany was never idle. 
Her small white hands were always 
busy in some work of art or neces- 
sity. She used her needle as skil- 
fully as she did her paint-brush, and 
she loved her needle. It was often 
very consolatory to her to sit with 
her sewing and think or talk with 
her guests. She spent many hours 
now by Col. Yon Lingard’s couch, 
sitting and sewing either with her 
embroidery or on the never suffi- 
ciently accumulated female trea- 
sures of muslin and white linen. Col. 
Yon Lingard was fascinated often 
to the forgetfulness of weary hours 
of pain by her brilliant, changeful 
conversation. Her reading was im- 
j mense in extent, her experience 


46 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


in life varied, her judgment sound, 
her taste very perfect. She was 
a most delightful companion to 
be shut up with in a monotonous 
life. She read aloud well and with 
deep feeling, was a good German 
scholar, and used to read all the old 
and new publications to Yon Lin- 
gard in his own tongue. The gen- 
tlemen were all very attentive to 
their imprisoned companion, and 
the ladies used to send him flowers 
and nice messages, so altogether the 
colonel was as comfortable as a 
man could well be under such cir- 
cumstances. Sometimes, as he 
heard the sweep and rustle of her 
silk and satin trained dresses as 
Athalie passed his door to go to 
dinner, a hot longing would come 
into his heart, and would send the 
blood to his head, as he yearned for 
a sight of her beautiful face, or to 
feel the satiny touch of her white 
hand. Once, as he heard her ap- 
proaching when there was only a 
servant in the room, he complained 
suddenly of the heat of the room, 
and asked to have the door set open 
for a few minutes. Just as it open- 
ed, Athalie swept past, radiant in 
loveliness, splendidly dressed. Yon 
Lingard raised himself upon one arm 
and gazed eagerly on her. As she 
came in front of the door, her head 
turned in surprise at seeing it open, 
and her eyes met the ardent glance 
of Yon Lingard’s. A brilliant 
smile broke resplendently over her 
lovely countenance. She stopped 
for an instant, saying in her sweetest 
tones, 

“ You are very much better, Col. 
Yon Lingard ?” 

“ Yery much, and I shall improve 
as fast as possible in order that I 
may be restored to the charming 
society of the drawing-room,” said 


Yon Lingard, with a smile. “ Mrs. 
Deslondes, sick people and captives 
are indulged in their caprices. 
Won’t you give me the flower you 
wear in your corsage to-day ? It is a 
great favorite of mine — the daphne 
odora.” 

Athalie took the flower from her 
breast-knot, stepped inside the door, 
and laid it in Yon Lingard’s out- 
stretched hand.” 

He lifted the flower to his lips, 
murmuring “ Thanks !” The sound 
of Miss Clemmy’s ebony cane was 
heard slowly stumping down the 
hall, and Athalie sprang lightly 
out of the door, and walked 
straight on, before the enemy had 
gotten upon the field of action. 

“You may shut the door now,” 
said Yon Lingard to the servant. 
“ The room is cooler.” 


CHAPTER X. 

There was quite a . little excite- 
ment when Mrs. Dulany announced 
one morning at luncheon that Col. 
Yon Lingard would make an at- 
tempt to join the party in the par- 
lor that evening. He would not be 
able to sit up at the dinner-table, 
but would try to spend the evening, 
he hoped, on the sofa, if the ladies 
would permit of his reclining in their 
presence. The ladies were all 
charmed to learn that the colonel 
could come amongst them. He 
was very agreeable, and they had 
missed him very much indeed. 
There was a little consultation be- 
tween Emma and the Fortier girls 
and Athalie, and then Emma an- 
nounced their intention of making 
“a fete of the occasion — in German 
style.” Benny and Mr. Foster 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


41 


were to go out in the woods and 
bring a quantity of hawthorne and 
firewood branches, which were 
brilliant with their crimson berries 
at this season ; also some holly 
boughs and a mass of gray Spanish 
moss, and plenty of the long glossy 
evergreen vines of the cocculus, 
with its scarlet fruit, and also 
plenty of cedar and laurel sprays; 
and Arthur and Louis and Conrad 
were to help them make garlands 
and wreaths to decorate the apart- 
ments ; and they were to have din- 
ner earlier and to have a collation 
served in the parlor on a table, to 
be wheeled in at a certain signal, 
and Athalie was to sing, and they 
were all to make themselves as 
beautiful and as charming as possi- 
ble to welcome the colonel back to 
life again. 

Mrs. Dulany smilingly acquiesced 
in the arrangement, and everybody 
started off in high glee to fulfil 
these self-imposed tasks. Mrs. Du- 
lany went into her green-house and 
stripped her handsomest flowers of 
every bloom. She was cutting 
some exquisite bunches of the 
lovely wax plant, when Emma 
dashed into the green-house, all 
sparkle and animation. 

“ Mrs. Dulany, we would prefer 
the studio to the drawing-room, if 
you have no objection. We can 
make it so much more picturesque 
and bowery. May we V 1 

‘‘Well, take the studio. Only I 
must go and set aside my wet pic- 
ture on the easel now.” 

Mrs. Dulany went up into the 
studio and put her painting utensils 
safely away, dropped the crimson 
curtains which shut off the alcove 
and organ, had several easy- 
chairs and lounges added to the 
already comfortable furniture of the 


light, spacious room, then resigned 
it into the hands of her guests. In* 
a few hours the room was metamor- 
phosed into a perfect bower. Gar- 
lands streamed over the windows 
and were festooned across the apart- 
ment, until they made a lovely dra- 
pery of greenerie. The chandelier 
was hidden with evergreens, and 
lights, under Mrs. Dulany’s artistic 
direction, were distributed so as to 
produce an almost fairy-like effect. 
Hanging baskets of flowers and roses 
were suspended profusely, and a few 
bright-colored curtains displayed so 
as to heighten the brilliant tone of 
color. A circular table was set be- 
hind the curtains in the alcove, 
splendidly adorned with glass and 
silver and flowers and fruits, on 
which the collation was to be spread 
and to be revealed like enchantment 
at the given signal. A luxurious 
lounge was wheeled into the best 
position in the room. Athalie 
threw her handsomest cashmere 
over the end of it, to lay over the 
hero’s feet, and Louis brought in 
the panther skin, which he had had 
beautifully dressed and lined with 
crimson flannel. He spread that 
down by the side of the conch. 

“ I have got the cat’s skin, too !” 
he said. “ But I don’t know where 
to put that. It is too little.” 

“ Oh, here 1 Give it to me ! I’ll 
spread it on this footstool,” said Em- 
ma, eagerly. Louis handed over the 
wild-cat’s skin, and Emma displayed 
it to its best advantage, with the 
bushy tail hanging very prominent- 
ly down in view. 

“ Now,” said Louis, “ you ought 
to have some hickory chicken and 
yupon tea, and then you would be 
all right !” 

Emma laughed and said, “They 
could dispense with those Confede- 


48 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA T UR A . 


rate luxuries just now. Do you 
know, Louis,” sbe continued, “I 
never mean to eat corn bread again 
as long as I live ? I had so much of 
it in war time.” 

Col. Yon Lingard was quite sur- 
prised when, leaning on Louis and 
Benny’s arms, he was conducted 
that evening into the brilliant lights 
of the studio. He put his hands to 
his eyes. 

“ My eyes are fairly dazzled ! 
It is like fairy-land 1 What is this ? 
What have you done here ? You 
said we were to go to the studio ! 
How very, very beautiful ! What 
does it all mean ?” 

Louis and Benny supported him 
to his couch, adorned with the pan- 
ther skin and Athalie’s shawl. 

“ Lie down first, and we will tell 
you.” 

The dazed colonel submitted in 
silence, and then Mrs. Dulany stood 
by him and. took his hand kindly in 
hers, as she said, 

“ It means, dear colonel, that we 
are happy to have you safe amongst 
us, and that we have made a little 
fete of the occasion.” 

Mrs. Dulany was beautifully dressed 
in the full costume of a trained velvet 
gown and diamonds flashing every- 
where about her hair and arms. As 
she ceased to speak, the soft tones of 
the organ in the alcove rose on the 
ear, and Athalie sung a joyous alle- 
gro aria, to which she had set some 
simple words of welcome appropri- 
ate to the hour. The aria ended in 
a full chorus, sustained by all the 
company, in which the phrase, “We 
welcome, welcome, welcome thee,” 
was repeated in a fugue to very 
beautiful music, even if it was not 
to be ranked in the highest order 
of poetry as regarded feet or metre. 
The tears rose in Yon Lingard’s 


eyes. *He was an impressible Ger- 
man, and he pressed Mrs. Dulany’s 
hand fervently as she held his still 
kindly in her gentle clasp. As the 
song ended the performers trooped 
out from behind the curtain, and 
Yon Lingard was surrounded with 
the whole bevy, all talking, laughing, 
and shaking hands with him. The 
ladies and gentlemen were in full 
evening dress! Athalie was beautiful 
as a dream in her white tulle with 
green and silver trimmings. She 
had a wreath of green and silver 
flowers in her hair, illuminated by 
butterflies of emeralds and diamonds ; 
her neck and arms were bare, a 
necklace of emeralds and diamonds 
fitted close around her throat, then 
strand after strand of glorious 
pearls fell one lower than the other 
down to the middle of her low bod- 
ice. Her bands of sleeves were 
fastened by a simple button of em- 
eralds, set round with diamonds, 
and her waist ribbon was clasped 
by a rosette of the same jewels in 
front, while the ends of the broad 
sash fell in a huge bow at the back. 
Emma looked more like a firefly than 
ever in a crimson moire with jewels 
of gold ; while the Fortier girls, ac- 
cording to Louisianian custom, were 
dressed in simple white tulle frocks, 
without jewels, only a flower in their 
hair and a ribbon about their waists. 
Miss Clemmy even condescended to 
be gracious. She too was in grand 
array, and carried her favorite snuff- 
box in her pocket, which played 
“Hail to the Chief,” and Mendels- 
sohn’s “Es ist verstimmt in Gottes 
Rath,” which she set off for the colo- 
nel’s entertainment at the very first 
available opportunity. That was 
after the collation had been wheeled 
in and partaken of, and everybody 
had set down as usual to cards, and 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


49 


Atbalie was playing chess with the 
colonel once more. Miss Clem my 
started the music-box then, and the 
colonel found it so convenient to 
have it going on playing while he 
talked in a very low tone to Atha- 
lie. He begged Miss Clemmy to 
wind it up again, when it had run 
itself down, and she delightedly did 
it. Then the box played merrily 
away, and everybody quarrelled and 
laughed as usual over the cards, and 
Col. Yon Lingard played chess 
very badly indeed, and talked a 
great deal more than he had ever 
done at that game with anybody. 
Athalie played excitedly ; her eyes 
were gleaming like stars, and her 
lips were red as if with fever. She 
did not talk much nor look up very 
often, but she seemed quite inte- 
rested and contented. Mrs. Dulany 
glanced carelessly towards the chess- 
players as she was sitting at the 
card-table, and her large eyes grew 
sad in their expression ; a slight 
frown contracted the usually serene 
brow, but she went on playing her 
hand, and they kept up the festival 
until midnight, when Mrs. Dulany 
said the colonel must retire — and 
the Fete of Welcome ended. 


CHAPTER XI. 

It was not long before Col. Yon 
Lingard reassumed his usual place 
in the little society. He still limp- 
ed, and had to use a stick to aid him 
in locomotion, otherwise he got 
along very well, and his lot was 
quite enviable. Everybody was 
kind and considerate towards him ; 
even Miss Clemmy had laid aside 
4 


her provoking system of espio- 
nage while he was still an invalid, 
and Athalie was charming and 
more beautiful than ever. But Mrs. 
Dulany kept watch over all. She 
seemed to think matters had gone 
as far as was good for Athalie. She 
had a sharp medicine in store for 
her wayward friend, and she thought 
it time now to interfere. She told 
the Fortier girls early one morning 
that as the boat was going over the 
lake, she thought it would be a 
good opportunity for them to pay 
their long-promised visit to Mrs. 
Lawson, who lived across the lake, 
and she proposed that Louis and 
Conrad Stilman should escort them 
over and return on the second day 
following. She found the weather 
would not continue “ bright long. 
There were signs, precursors of 
change already.” 

The girls were much pleased to 
go for a brief visit to their friend, 
and so Mrs. Dulany saw their va- 
lises packed up and a luncheon bas- 
ket prepared, and the four young 
people started off in high glee on 
their expedition. The day continued 
fair, but towards evening began to 
look gloomy, and the night set in 
gusty and rainy. The boat had re- 
turned after depositing its precious 
freight at Mrs. Lawson’s gate, 
so Mrs. Dulany had no anxiety 
about the safety of her absent 
guests. Miss Clemmy complained 
of neuralgia in the face, so she did 
not appear at the dinner-table, as 
usual. Mrs. Dulany found her 
small circle reduced to the Lalandes, 
Benny, Athalie, and Col. Yon Lin- 
gard. They all felt rather gloomy, 
owing to the absence of the gay 
Fortiers and the Stilmans, and the 
weather, too, affected everybody’s 
spirits. Arthur gave utterance to 


50 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


a tremendous yawn as he threw him- 
self on a sofa after dinner. 

“ Do talk, Emma, or, Athalie, sing 
or do something. Such weather 
makes an impressible fellow despe- 
rate. I am ’duller and stupider than 
any owl that ever caught mice in 
Mrs. Dulany’s woods.” 

“ Don’t exert yourself in making 
superfluous explanations, Arthur,” 
said Athalie, laughing. “ It is a 
self-evident fact that you are dull 
this evening, and I believe we all 
are, except Mrs. Dulany,” turning 
to Rosalthe as she spoke. 

Mrs. Dulany smiled. “ I have a 
proposition to make to you all,” 
she said. “ Will you come to the 
studio and spend the evening with 
me ? I have a new picture to 
show you, and a tragic story to tell 
you, if you like to hear it.” 

“0, yes! 0, yes!” was eagerly 
vociferated by the united voices. 
So Mrs. Dulany ordered lights in 
the studio, and she and her guests 
were soon gathered there around a 
cheerful fire, which blazed and 
crackled in defiance of the roar 
of stormy winds out of doors. 
Mrs. Dulany drew an easel for- 
ward into full light, and then lift- 
ing up a picture which had been 
leaning with its face turned to the 
wall, she placed it on the easel. 
They all gathered around to exam- 
ine it. It was a very pretty picture, 
but very simple ; a dark pool of 
water, surrounded by tall trees on 
three sides of it. The fourth was 
clear and open to view. Here the 
water rested against a low sunny 
bank of green grass, and just be- 
yond the bank the sunshine, most 
artfully managed, struck on a low 
white marble cross in the fore- 
ground, on which one could distin- 
guish, by looking closely, one single 


word. It was “ Lettice.” The wa- 
ter was dark and deep. At the ex- 
treme perspective of the pool a few 
bits of board formed a rustic bridge, 
and a narrow bayou ran under this ; 
the outlet of the pool fringed like 
the pool with immense poplars and 
huge willow trees until they were 
lost to view in the distance. 

“What is the name of the pic- 
ture ?” asked Emma. 

“ 1 The Water Hole.’ My story is 
connected with it. It is a real tale. 
I had that cross put there myself. 
The spot is on one of my river plan- 
tations about fifty miles from this.” 

“It is a very artistic picture,” 
said Yon Lingard. “That water 
is good. It is so deep and so 
still. What reflections you have 
caught ! And the trees ! They 
stand so gloomily about it. There 
is something very dark and merci- 
less about that pool. What is it?” 

“ It makes one shudder like look- 
ing down into a deep, dark well,” 
said Athalie, shivering, and drawing 
her shawl about her bare shoulders. 

“Only that one little bit of streak 
of sunshine on the grass and cross. 
Mrs. Dulany, you tried to give 
Rembrandt effects,” said Benny. 

“I painted what I saw, and 
what I knew. As I told you, this 
is a real place. I painted it on the 
spot, that is, I made the sketch from 
which I furnished this on the spot. 
But will you hear the story ?” 

They resumed their seats. Mrs. 
Dulany opened a drawer, took out 
a roll of manuscript, and sitting 
down near a lamp, began to read. 

“ THE WATER HOLE. 

“ I, Rosalthe Dulany, nee Derochet , 
was born in what I consider the very 
garden spot of Louisiana, in the beau- 
tiful Attakapas country. As may be 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGG1ATURA. 


51 


seen by my maiden name, I am an 
Acadian by birth. With us Aca- 
dians the ties of blood and country 
are as strong as they are amongst 
all persecuted people, such as Jews, 
Poles, and Hungarians. We never 
forsake, disown, or neglect a com- 
patriot under any circumstances 
of life whatsoever. I must be par- 
doned for dwelling a moment here 
upon the characteristics of my pecu- 
liar people. Whatever of good, or 
truth, or talents I may possess I owe 
to my French blood, and I am pas- 
sionately attached to my race. With 
my peculiar ideas as to the extent 
to which civilization ( ‘progress,’ 
so called) promotes greatness or 
happiness, I may be pardoned 
for challenging history to show 
a people who, under the same cir- 
cumstances, have been more worthy 
of admiration and imitation than 
always have been and are the Aca- 
dians. The civilization of to-day, 
which, I contend, is bent upon the 
destruction of all old landmarks 
and guides, and is prone to extin- 
guish all the poetry of our natures 
(which is the very essence of all 
love), of religion itself, tells me that 
the Acadian and his descendants 
are ‘away behind the age.’ I 
thank God that there is yet a peo- 
ple, a remnant of a people, who are 
behind this age, who do yet pre- 
serve the memory of their fathers 
and cherish their example, who do 
yet ‘ worship. God, who is a spirit, 
in spirit and in truth,’ and whose 
simplicity of God-worship is only 
a part of their ‘daily walk and con- 
versation,’ and of their communion 
with each other ! The characteris- 
tic of the Acadian is simplicity — sim- 
plicity of wants, simplicity of lan- 
guage, simplicity of manner, sim- 
plicity of trust, simplicity of honor, 


and fair, open dealing with his fel- 
low-man. If this original, cardinal 
characteristic has been in any wise 
modified, it has been through con- 
tact with his wiser (?) brother of An- 
glo-Saxon origin — with Americans. 

You know the origin of the Aca- 
dians as a distinct people — a small 
colony, fleeing from the trammels 
of civilization in the Old Worldtothe 
rock-bound coast and the grand old 
forests of America, yet clinging to 
their fatherland and their king with 
all the love and trust of dutiful 
children. The brightest page in 
history tells you how that little col- 
ony, called Acadia, or Petite France, 
occupying the province now known 
as Nova Scotia, with blind faith in 
their king, fought the enemies of 
France as long as there was a ‘ hope 
of victory, and, when overpowered,’ 
preferred exile from their homes to 
allegiance, in any form, to Great 
Britain. Even when overpowered, 
and to all intents and purposes 
abandoned by their king and coun- 
try, the most their tyrant victors 
could force from them was a prom- 
ise of neutrality; and that promise 
simply made they kept in the sim- 
plicity of perfect good faith, such as 
was never displayed, before or since, 
by any other people. Neutrality 
was very irksome to them, a very 
hard condition, made harder by the 
events which rapidly followed its 
exaction ; but those who broke that 
vow were driven to it by the perfidy 
of ‘ Albion,’ as they still call Eng- 
land. They hate her yet ! That 
same perfidy drove them from homes 
reduced to ashes, exiled without 
cause. Love for France brought 
them, ten years after their disper- 
sion, beneath the flag of France in 
the wilds of Louisiana. What dif- 
ficulties, what dangers, what griefs 


52 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


did they not encounter and over- 
come in their weary, weary tramp 
from ice-bound Canada to semi- 
tropical Louisiana ? Who but the 
brave, the resolute, the hardy would 
have undertaken to surmount them ? 
What chagrin, what disappointment 
must they not have endured to find, 
on their arrival in Louisiana, that 
the weak monarch, for loyalty to 
whom they had sacrificed every- 
thing, for whom they had even borne 
the disruption of family ties — for their 
loyalty was a part of the religion of 
this poor, proud, true people — their 
king was too poor in purse, too 
short-sighted in policy, to welcome 
them to their new home ! How 
heartrending to such a people must 
it have been to know, as they did 
soon after their arrival in Louisiana, 
that their king had secretly donated 
them as so many chattels, and the 
whole of the sunny land they had 
come to dwell in, ‘ to his very dear 
cousin , the king of Spain Three 
men of the colony, one of them an 
ancestor of mine, M. Le Sassier, 
went to throw themselves at the feet 
of the French monarch, entreating 
him not to sell Louisiana and ‘ his 
French people 9 to Spain. But the 
errand was fruitless, and the Aca- 
dians were helpless. Crushed and 
sorrowful, in spite of all this dis- 
couragement, they yielded strict 
obedience to the power which, for 
a time, ruled them. They did not 
like Spain, but they hated only Eng- 
land. They lived very retired lives, 
and applied themselves diligently to 
agriculture, which had been their 
occupation in their lost Acadia. 
Amidst all the mutations, produced 
by the indecision of kings, through 
which poor Louisiana passed so 
often in little more than fifty years, 
until a limit was put, in 1815, to this 


chequer-board play of monarchs by 
the real sovereigns of America , the 
United States — from their first 
appearance here in 1765 until this 
day, have the Acadians, as a peo- 
ple, whilst loving quiet pursuits and 
the arts of peace, been loyal and 
lovingly true to Louisiana. 

No mind capable of appreciating 
innate beauty and individuality of 
character unadorned by art can fail 
to find pleasure and food for re- 
flection in tracing the history of 
this people, who in language,’ in 
grace of person and manner, in re- 
ligion were French, and yet the 
children of Nature — a people who, 
from an inborn appreciation of what 
is noble, had, as embodying a vital 
principle, for motto, ‘ Les Acadiens 
deiestent les mensonges 9 Scorning 
duplicity, carrying their hearts in 
their open hands, yet compelled to 
witness and become the victims of 
the double dealing and corruption 
of those whose morals and ideas of 
honor had not been improved by edu- 
cation, it is not to be wondered at that 
so many of those honest Acadians 
should have preferred and should 
have taught their children to prefer 
the seclusion of their rustic homes 
to the field of letters and the glitter 
of courts. Such seem to have been 
the principles of this people. We 
first know of them as hunters, trap- 
pers, and fishermen in the primitive 
island of Nova Scotia, and to-day 
we find them just as unwilling as 
they then were to attract public no- 
tice, as much now as then disposed 
to avoid pomp and ceremony of liv- 
ing, and the society of those who 
seek after these things, and now more 
than ever, since the recent vicissi- 
tudes of fortune which they have 
borne in common with all true 
Southerners, are they cultivating 


A ' SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


53 


modesty of living, frugality, and kind- 
liness of manner. Still more closely 
are they given to tilling their own 
lands, watching their herds on the 
prairies, and to hunting and fishing. 
They need so little to live upon ! 
The poor Acadians had never the 
money needed for very extended 
education, had they even valued it. 
They had barely the means $f sub- 
sistence. Their whole wealth, when 
they came here, consisted of their 
own brawny muscles and the ex- 
ceedingly scant implements of agri- 
culture which the colony afforded. 

Surrounded and harassed by the 
Indians, whom French blindness 
and English greed had made their 
enemies, having witnessed the exe- 
cution of Lafreniere, of Villere, of 
Noyan, of Milhet, and others for 
having dared to doubt the power or 
good-will of Spain toward them, 
whilst the flag of France still float- 
ed from every mast and every flag- 
staff in the colony, their cup of 
sorrow must have indeed been over- 
flowing when the hated British, 
stretching their arms, had left to 
France and Spain of all this sunny 
land only that portion of Louisi- 
ana ‘ lying south of Manshac.’ 
How could such a people have the 
heart to seek wealth, or think of 
place and preferment under such 
circumstances ? How do otherwise 
than shrink away from ‘civilization,’ 
and pray, as they did in their 
churches, that they might always be 
‘ too poor’ to attract the attention 
and excite the greed of their ene- 
mies ? Still were they brave, chiv- 
alrously ready to resent personal 
affront, and the first to respond in 
arms when the honor of France 
called them. As sharpshooters and 
frontiersmen among the Indians, 
their courage was excelled only by 


their patient endurance of hardship 
and fatigue. They fought under 
Gen. Jackson bravely, and, alas ! 
their blood has watered every field 
which has added lustre to the late 
unfortunate war. They are natu- 
rally disposed to peace, but to tliem, 
in their words, ‘ Tous les proscripts 
sont freres, qu’ils soient victimes 
des Grecs ou des Anglais, et le ge- 
nie de l’infortunea partout la meme 
poesie de langue.’ From New Or- 
leans, in 1815, to Manassas and 
Sharpsburg, to Chancellorsville and 
Fredericksburg, to the Wilderness 
and to Petersburg, to Shiloh and to 
Mansfield, look, and ask the survi- 
vors of those battles whether the 
sons of the Acadians shrank from 
the dangers shared by their brother 
creoles of Louisiana. Ask for the 
graves of Monton, of Armand. 
Even in times of peace scions of 
Acadia have been conspicuous 
among us. Were there not Martin 
and Landry and Heberts ? We 
do not blush for our record there, in 
Attakapas, where my people first 
colonized — a choice region, with the 
beautiful Teche and Grand Lake on 
one side, and on the other a vast 
prairie of inexhaustible fertility, 
skirted by the Gulf of Mexico, which 
gave them boundless hunting and 
fishing-grounds, and the invariable 
reward of tillage. Here in the most 
genial clime of earth, where they 
were sheltered from the chilling blasts 
of winter, and in summer fanned by 
delicious breezes from old ocean, it 
is no wonder that a whole genera- 
tion should have lived and died, be- 
lieving that 1 Eden had been re- 
gained,' and they had watched with 
some jealousy the coming of people 
of another tongue to share that para- 
dise with them. It was in the midst 
of these people that I found my 


54 


A SOUTHERN V1LLEGGIATURA. 


happy childhood’shome on the banks 
of the Teche, and I try to thank 
God often for having east my birth- 
right among those from whom the 
agriculturist may take' lessons, 
princes learn politeness, and philoso- 
phers gather wisdom. It is a lovely 
land, mine!” (Mrs. Dulany paused 
for a moment, and wiped away a 
tear from her eyes, then continued 
her reading: — ) 

“ Content in their humble dwell- 
ings, copied still in their architec- 
ture from the quaint old ‘ maison- 
ettes’ of Acadia, they dread debt, 
are temperate in all things, hospi- 
table to strangers, invariably and 
intuitively courteous and polite, 
Catholic in religion, and constant 
in the sincerity of their attachments. 
I can readily forgive them if, as a 
people, they are ‘ behind the age’ in 
letters and art, and I can even cher- 
ish the example which they offer, in 
many things, to 4 Latter-day Saints ’ 
of the progressive school. Their 
language is unwritten, and is not to 
be rendered intelligibly to-day to 
1 outsiders.’ It is French, which 
in Acadia was provincial and dis- 
tinct of its kind and in its idiom, 
but to-day, after some blending 
with the French of Gascony and St. 
Domingo, its chief peculiarity con- 
sists in the abbreviation of words, 
and its directness of object. I would 
call it clipped French, which must 
be heard to be understood, and I 
must not fail to say that even limited 
education destroys most of its pecu- 
liarity. It is musical, and beautifully 
expresses grief or joy. 

To give you some idea of the 
simple hearts of my people, I will 
tell you about my mother, who was 
a Parisian. My father, an Acadian 
of wealth, had been sent abroad 
for education to 1 la belle et chere 


France ;’ he had married there, and 
brought my mother home to Louisi- 
ana. Well, my mother took a great 
fancy to a young Acadian girl, who 
was very pretty and amiable, and 
mamma thought to please her by 
making her some little presents. 
The first thing she gave her was a 
silver thimble. Armandine was de- 
lighted. A silver thimble was a rare 
and costly possession for an Aca- 
dienne. She wore it proudly to 
church on the following Sunday, 
and she came weeping to my mother 
on the next day, entreating her not 
to be vexed with her for returning fhe 
silver thimble. She said it made all 
her young friends cold and envious 
of her, and she could not bear to have 
anything different from or better 
than her neighbors. Mamma took 
back the poor little thimble. I have 
it yet. She often told me the inci- 
dent, and advised me always to re- 
member the courtesy and simplicity 
which belonged to the Acadian na- 
ture. When I was a very small girl, 
I was taken to Armandine’s wedding. 
She married a neighbor’s son named 
Michel Bondrot. Michel was al- 
ready quite famous in the commu- 
nity for his good temper and his 
native skill as a violin-player. No 
ball was complete without Michel 
Bondrot. He really did play won- 
derfully well. I have danced many 
a night and many a Sunday evening 
to Michel’s music. We were all 
Roman Catholics, of course. 

I remember Michel’s wedding. 
How fine the bride was in her white 
cotton gown ! How extraordinary 
the elegance, dignified ease, and 
courtesy of old Bondrot, pere t clad 
in Attakapas cottonade ! How gay 
the interior of the maisonnette , the 
chief room of which, fifteen by fif- 
teen feet square, could have furnish- 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


55 


ed space for twenty couples of no 
other race than the graceful and ac- 
tive, but fastidious and painstaking 
Acadians, who found room to waltz, 
gallop, and dance contredances, 
without the loss of a ribbon or of a 
single loop of lace. They lost no 
part of their coiffure, for the belles 
of Petite Cadie found no need of 
art in their head-dresses. Every 
guest vied with the other as to who 
should pay to the beautiful bride 
the most respectful ‘ obeissance.’ 
Ah ! the lovely French manners ! 
the charming petits soins ! It seems 
to me that love is not love which 
does not demonstrate itself by con- 
siderations and small kindnesses. 
But then allowance must be made 
for my preferences. I am French, 
and the cold English customs and 
the careless American fashions op- 
press me. I have been always ac- 
customed chez moi to such sweet 
tenderness, such lovely politeness. I 
remember how shocked we all were 
when on this occasion a young man 
(Bondrot said he ‘ was of Gascon 
descent’) dared venture to the ve- 
randa of the house, smoking a 
cigarette. Old Bondrot saw and 
met him, and drawing himself up 
to his full height of stature and dig- 
nity, he said to him, sternly, 

‘Jeune homme ! Sortez de la! 
Je suis maitre chez moi ! Un gen- 
tilhomme ne fumera jamais dans la 
presence des dames!” 

The old man’s words and man- 
ner so offended the young man that 
he mounted his horse and rode rap- 
idly away, leaving his sweetheart in 
tears ! I have been so diffuse in 
talking of my people, because it was 
just the fact that I belonged to the 
race which interested me anc^gave 
me some peculiar power of know- 
ledge of the story I am about to 


relate. When I married I left the 
Attjakapas, and was never much 
among my own people until at the 
death of my father, when I inherited 
his maisonnette , which I still retain, 
and where I go usually for three 
summer months every year. When 
I returned home after, an absence of 
many years — I was abroad a good 
deal with my husband, whose health 
was feeble — I found many changes 
amongst my old Acadian friends. 
Armandine Bondrot was dead, and 
Michel, left alone with one daugh- 
ter, had married a second time — an 
American woman who did not un- 
derstand or appreciate Acadian 
ways and manners — and Michel and 
his daughter were not very happy 
now at home. Lettice, the daugh- 
ter, was about sixteen now, and 
quite as beautiful as her own mo- 
ther had been in her youth, but I 
found she was not so intelligent nor 
so sweet as Armandine. There was 
something immature and obtuse 
in Lettice. She always reminded 
one of a beautiful dumb beast. Old 
Michel, as they now called my young 
Michel, still found his principal joy 
in his violin, and Lettice did one 
thing well — she danced beautifully, 
and had the French love for society 
and gayety. Yet Lettice was a 
hard-working girl. She milked her 
fifteen cows twice a day regularly. 
She spun her eight hanks of fine 
thread, which she also knew how to 
dye skilfully, and how to weave on 
her poor little hand-loom, into the 
stout but fine red Attakapas cot- 
tonade, which her father sold to the 
New Orleans merchants for a dol- 
lar a yard. Madame Bondrot, the 
stepmother, gave the poor girl little 
rest. I felt sorry for Letty, but 
could not help her much, except by 
gifts of ribbons and bright-colored 


56 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


dresses, such as suited her ingenuous 
tastes. Though we were rich, my 
father had never separated himself 
from his poorer brethren. They all 
visited us upon the footing of per- 
fect equality. Their manners were 
perfect, though their homes were 
poor, and their living principally 
of rice and vegetables, with the 
milk and butter from their herds of 
cattle, and fish from the rivers and 
sea! After my father’s death I lived 
as he did. My neighbors came and 
visited me at their will, and I al- 
ways called on every one as soon as 
I was established chez moi every 
summer. I do still. It is French 
custom for the stranger to call. 
They say, that it is for him to choose 
his society. Of course every one is 
glad to see a stranger. That is also 
Acadian simplicity, I know 1 My 
husband had an estate, our princi- 
pal one, on the river in a parish 
adjoining this. During his-life we 
spent most of our time there. I 
never go there now, but at this pe- 
riod we were living there. M. Du- 
lany had a number of fine cattle to 
take to' that place from our prairie 
grazing farm, and he induced old 
Michel Bondrot to accompany the 
cattle with other herdsmen up to the 
plantation. Bondrot was quite 
pleased with the aspect of the country, 
and said he would return in the fall 
with a lot of cattle of his own, which 
he thought he could dispose of to 
advantage. 

We had many neighbors near our 
plantation. They were principally 
American. I found them very 
kind, but there was one that I never 
liked. His name was Tilney, a Dr. 
Tilney. He lived but a few miles 
from our place. He had come there 
many years before, my husband 
said, and established himself as a 


country doctor on one of the estates 
in the neighborhood. He was a man 
of considerable ability, but hard and 
wicked countenance, and of rough 
and rude manners. He was shrewd, 
and had managed to make money and 
to buy in by some legal trick the es- 
tate on which the owner had hospita- 
bly given him a home when he came 
to the parish poor and needy. It 
was a very disgraceful transaction, 
and my husband dropped all inter- 
course with Tilney after it. I used 
to hear continual accounts of his 
wickedness and cruelty to his ne- 
groes, and of his swindling transac- 
tions with everybody who attempted 
to deal with him. He lived in the 
most openly depraved manner — was 
a practical miscegenationist. 

I never saw him except that some- 
times I would pass him as I drove 
out in my carriage on the public road. 
By some accident Michel Bondrot 
met with Tilney, and agleed to fur- 
nish him with some cattle in the fol- 
lowing autumn. My husband warned 
Michel, when he learned this, against 
having any dealings with Tilney, 
and Michel promised that he would 
not carry out the proposed arrange- 
ment. Poor Michel, however, did 
not live to see the fall. He was 
drowned in a squall off the coast; he 
went out on a fishing expedition, and 
never returned. I was grieved to 
learn of his death, and sent his wid- 
ow and the pretty Lettice a full sup- 
ply of mourning clothes, which was 
valuable to them. Imagine my sur- 
prise one day, in riding, to meet old 
Dr. Tilney sitting in a new buggy 
dressed in fine black clothes, and 
sitting by his side, in a red silk 
dress, my pretty Acadienne, Lettice 
Bondrot. She bent forward and 
spoke to me eagerly. I was so sur- 
prised I scarcely responded. The 


V 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 51 


next day the fine new buggy drove 
up to my door, and Lettice, accom- 
panied by a little negro boy, got 
out. She had come to pay me a 
visit, according to our French cus- 
toms. She told me that Dr. Tilney 
had come down himself to Petite 
Cadie to see about the cattle her 
father had agreed to sell to him, and 
that he had seen her at work at her 
spinning-wheel. With many blushes 
Letty then went on to say that he had 
come again after the first visit about 
the cattle, and again ; that the 
belle mere could not agree as to the 
price to be paid ; and that after much 
time had been spent, haggling over 
the price of the cattle, the belle mire 
and Tilney had come to terms. And 
then how surprised Letty was when 
the great American gentleman, with 
those bags of gold and silver, had 
asked the belle mere for permission 
to marry Letty. At first Letty 
said she thought she did not wish to 
be married to so old a man, and to 
one whom she did not know. But 
the belle mire grew very angry and 
beat her, and treated her so badly 
that at the end of a week Lettice 
gave in to her wishes, and she was 
married by the cure on the follow- 
ing Sunday, just in her new black 
frock that I had sent her; and then 
she had come away with Tilney, and 
he had given her some beautiful 
clothes, which she would show me 
when I came to see her. She said 
she was ‘not so very happy, though 
she no longer had to spin, or milk 
the cows. Judy did all that, 
but’ — and here Letty’s face began 
to cloud over and her lips com- 
menced to quiver — she was “afraid 
of Judy! Judy did not like her, 
and Judy’s children were very 
naughty, and said they had more 
rights there in Dr. Tilney’s house 


than Letty had. She was sorry 
she had not run away from her step- 
mother and come to me instead of 
getting married, but she did not 
know where I lived exactly. She 
had gone one day to my maisonnette , 
and asked where I was, but no one 
could tell her. Now she was mar- 
ried, and the cure said it would be 
a mortal' sin to run away from her 
husband. She had asked him about 
it.’ Of course I gave her as much 
good advice as was possible for me 
to think of under the circumstances, 
and she went away at last smiling 
and comforted, with her hands full 
of chocolate bonbons, contented 
as a child with pretty clothes 
and confections. My heart was full 
of misgivings in regard to Letty’s 
future life. I knew no good of old 
Tilney. She had evidently been 
sold to the old debauchee by her 
stepmotner, just as she sold the cat- 
tle that he purchased at the same 
time. It was something in his favor 
that he had at least married her, and 
conformed so far to outward moral- 
ity. But the Acadians have the 
strict French idea of protecting the 
honor of young maidens, and better 
than the French idea of the necessary 
chastity of married women, and Til- 
ney had to marry Lettice, or the 
whole community would have risen 
in vengeance against the man who 
would betray Michel Bondrot’s 
daughter. I went to see Letty 
shortly after her visit. I was struck 
with the wicked expression of Judy, 
who opened the door to allow me 
to enter the rude and disorderly 
house. The house was good enough, 
and there was furniture sufficient for 
the simple mind of an Acadienne to 
consider it very fine indeed. But 
everything was tawdry and out of 
place, and not very clean. Poor 


58 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


Letty had not the intuitive taste 
nor the intellectual brightness need- 
ful to know how to keep all around 
her in neat order and symmetry. 
Some women have this faculty. Put 
them in a hovel, and in a little while 
there will be felt a different atmo- 
sphere of cleanliness and order. In 
my refugee life in Texas, I found 
the tents of some women have an 
atmosphere of refinement and an air 
of home about them. It was a cur- 
tain looped in a certain way, or a 
bower of green branches before the 
entrance, some little grace there was 
always; and in others, without this in- 
genuity, skill, and makingshift, there 
would be, with the same materials, 
the most squalid discomfort. As I 
have already said, Lettice was not 
* an intelligent,’ as Kant calls it. 
She was just a handsome domestic 
animal. She could tie a ribbon on 
her hair, or arrange a knot of flow- 
ers very becomingly, and could do 
hard work, milk cows, attend a 
dairy, and spin or weave. I felt 
interested in her on account of old 
association with her family, but found 
I could do little for her besides be- 
ing generally kind and considerate 
towards her. About this time my 
husband’s health required a change ; 
so we were compelled to shut up our 
house and go abroad. We returned 
in 1861. Of course I lost sight 
of Letty in this interval. I saw 
her after my return. We all moved 
away from the river in obedience 
to the orders of Beauregard in 1862. 
We came out to this place first. 
Then in ’63 we went to Texas. The 
Tilneys, I was told, had gone on to 
Texas the year previous. One of 
our neighbors on the river, of 
whom my husband thought highly, 
was a Mr. Innisford. He was a 


man of family, had a very interest- 
ing wife and children. In going to 
Texas, we found ourselves one night 
near where Innisford was living. It 
was a place just within the borders of 
Texas, that he had leased for a term 
of years. As soon as Mr. Dulany 
heard the name from a man laboring 
in the field whom we stopped to 
make some inquiries about the road, 
he sent a servant to tell Innisford 
that we were camped near and 
would be glad to see him. He re- 
turned with our messenger, urged 
our coming at once to share his 
humble cottage, for a few days at 
least. We declined going into the 
house, but we camped in the 
woods near him for a week, to let 
our tired trains rest after the long, 
weary travel of nearly two months. 
My tent was quite comfortable, and 
my husband’s health seemed to be 
benefited by the unwonted exposure 
and gypsy life we had been endur- 
iug. I, too, was astonishingly well. 
I had grown quite stout, for me, 
and was as brown as Lady Queen 
Ann who sits in the sun, as the 
children sing in their play. It was a 
strange life. I often recall it with 
wonder. We gained much valuable 
experience in it, nothing more, as 
events terminated. However, I do 
not regret it. I learned the an- 
cient Acadian lessons over again, 
of frugality and contentment with 
little, for money would not buy lux- 
uries for us. They were not to be 
obtained at any price. So I ap- 
preciate now food, fire, shelter, plain 
clothing, the prime necessaries of 
life, as I never should have done but 
for this experience. Innisford gave 
us news of all our neighbors who 
had fled to Texas. Among others 
I asked for the Tilneys. What In- 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


59 


nisford told me I have woven into a 
connected narrative, so will read it 
as I wrote it down. 

John Caldwell had been a chum of 
Innisford at the Virginia University. 
He was younger than Innisford, and 
graduated later. Just about the time 
we sailed for Europe, Innisford 
received a letter from Caldwell, say- 
ing he had inherited a small fortune 
of about thirty thousand dollars, 
and he wished ta invest it in plant- 
ing, if possible, in Innisford’s neigh- 
borhood. The lands in that parish 
were quite famous in Louisiana as 
good cotton lands. Innisford in- 
vited John down on a visit, though 
he thought it very doubtful whether 
he could succeed in making such a 
purchase as he desired in the neigh- 
borhood. There were no lands for 
sale. Caldwell accepted the invi- 
tation, and came down to Innisford’s 
house. 

One bright morning John Cald- 
well took his gun and said he would 
go to shoot ducks in the lake. To 
get to the head of the lake he had 
to go through a piece of forest, 
and just out of that he came upon 
the pool called The Water Hole. 
This was a curious deep pond, not 
more than a quarter of a mile in 
diameter, almost circular in shape, 
caused by its peculiar formation. It 
was made by a violent circular eddy 
or whirlpool during an overflow. 
The river rushed in, breaking 
through all levees and banks, 
formed a fearful eddy in this spot, 
and hollowed out a deep, cup-like 
basin for itself, which had remained 
ever since. The Water Hole was 
deep and very dangerous. It was 
always full, as it seemed to be fed 
by springs at the bottom. Its 
height never varied. Winter and 
summer it fathomed more than 


thirty feet in depth right at the 
shores, which went down precipi- 
tously without shelving at all. It 
had only one outlet, a narrow tor- 
tuous bayou, which took off its sur- 
plus waters. Trees had grown up 
all around it, except on one side, 
which was the more dangerous, since 
it seemed to meet the clear, dark 
water in a most enticing way, with 
a close, smooth, grassy edge. Many 
an unwary cow and horse found his 
death in this deceitful spot. They 
would be enticed by the clear water, 
and putting in their front feet, as 
the manner of animals is, to drink, 
they would go sheer down, and find 
themselves instantaneously compel- 
led to swim for life. Sometimes 
they would succeed in scrambling 
back on the shore, but often they 
did not, and they would be drown- 
ed. There were ugly tales connect- 
ed with this spot. More than once 
the coroner had been called to hold 
an inquest over bodies discovered 
floating in this pool, who had evi- 
dently met their death by foul play. 
I myself saw the body of a man of 
middle age lying upon the grass by 
the pool, with the marks of an axe 
on his temples, and tightly clutched 
in his dead grasp the cuff of a fine 
white linen shirt. He had been 
drawn out of the water by'some 
passers-by. These and other still 
more fearful accidents or premedi- 
tated murders had given a bad name 
to the Water Hole. The negroes 
were superstitious about it. None 
of them would pass it after night- 
fall alone, if they could avoid it in 
any way. John Caldwell was walk- 
ing along, carelessly whistling, his 
gun upon his shoulder. As he ap- 
proached this place he heard the 
cry of a woman’s voice at the Water 
Hole. ‘Jack,’ it said, ‘Jack! 


60 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIATURA. 


Come here, Jack ! Oh, Jack ! my 
poor Jack!’ Hastening through 
the brushwood intervening, John 
Caldwell saw a woman kneeling 
close to the edge of the pool. Her 
hands were outstretched, and she 
was clapping them violently togeth- 
er, and calling, in tones of endear- 
ment, encouragement, and fear, to 
a beautiful yellow water-dog which 
was on the other side of the pool, 
but now swimming with tremendous 
energy, and evidently in mortal 
fright, trying to reach the shore 
where the woman was kneeling. 
Caldwell’s quick eye took in the 
situation in a minute. The woman’s 
voice was broken now by sobs of 
alarm and distress as she continued 
to call her dog. Tears were stream- 
ing down her face, as she said, 
* Oh, Jack ! you will be killed right 
before my eyes 1’ Caldwell saw just 
behind the dog, and on the point of 
seizing him, an enormous alligator 
in the eagerness of pursuit. It had its 
head raised high in the water. Cald- 
well stopped, took quiet and delib- 
erate aim with his gun. He had to 
be careful, as the dog was in a line 
with the reptile. The dog swerved 
a little to one side. The alligator 
made a rush forward with all his 
force and power at the dog. At 
that instant John fired — the aim 
was sure. The alligator was struck. 
He sank instantaneously, as the cus- 
tom of that creature is when 
wounded. The dog gave a short 
yelp of affright, and swam harder 
than ever towards the shore. In a 
moment more he was at the shore, 
and his mistress had seized him by 
the forelegs and hauled him on to 
terra jirma. She patted his wet 
head and caressed him fondly, talk- 
ing to him in French patois. The 
dog lay down panting on the 


ground. He was too tired and ex- 
hausted to do more than wag his 
tail in response to his mistress’s 
joy. John stood tranquilly survey- 
ing the scene with some curiosity. 
The woman seemed to recollect on 
a sudden that she had not yet 
thanked the preserver of her dog’s 
life, and she turned quickly towards 
John Caldwell. For an instant he 
felt dazzled as she looked up in his 
face with a smile of gratitude. It 
was surely the most beautiful face 
he thought he had ever looked 
upon in woman. It was Lettice 
Tilney. She thanked him for his 
opportune aid, sat down on the 
grass by her dog until he should be 
rested, and John sat down too, 
after a moment’s hesitation, on the 
grass near her. Letty talked freely, 
prattling with a childish naivete of 
all she knew. John had never been 
accustomed to this sort of a woman. 
In a little while she had told him 
who she was ; had asked who he 
was ; said she knew Mr. Innisford ; 
had told John all about Petite 
Cadie, where she used to live, and 
how she loved ‘ Jack’ so much, be- 
cause she had brought him, a little, 
wee, wee puppy, from her father’s 
house in Attakapas ; how naughty 
Jack was in going into the water 
when she had tried so to keep him 
out of it ; and that she had only 
walked out there because she wanted 
to get some Muscadine grapes, 
‘they were plenty in the woods;’ 
and that she was afraid of this Wa- 
ter Hole. ‘ It was a bad place. 
Judy said there were spirits — evil 
spirits — about it at night. They 
had been seen in the moonlight. A 
man rising out of the waves with 
his head all cut and bleeding, and a 
woman with her child on her breast, 
all phantoms, but they rose out of 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


61 


the water and walked upon the 
land in the moonlight.’ Lettice 
shuddered as she told of it, and 
rousing her dog up, said she must 
go. 

‘ But you are not afraid now, 
when I am here?’ said John, rather 
sentimentally, in his boyish folly. 

* 0, no 1’ The beautiful face 
glowed. ‘0, no! not when you 
have the gun. You are such a 
strong man ! I am not afraid, but 
I must go home. Come, Jack. 
Au revoir, monsieur .’ Letty saluted 
him with graceful politeness, and 
started to go away. 

John blushed, then stammered 
out — 

‘ Will you permit — may not I 
see you home? It will be safer, 
you know.’ 

* Sans doute ! Without doubt, 
sir, if you wish,’ said Letty, with 
a brilliant smile. ‘ I shall be very 
glad. I live not far from this. I 
will show you the road. Ah, see ! 
Jack has run on. He knows the 
road home very well. He has intelli- 
gence, Jack has !’ 

John thought the mile he had to 
walk with this beautiful childlike 
woman the shortest mile he ever 
walked in his life. When they 
reached the gate Lettice invited 
him to enter, in accordance with the 
usual style of country hospitality. 
She said her husband would be 
pleased to see him. Tilney was sit- 
ting on the open veranda, smoking 
his pipe. When he saw his wife 
enter, accompanied by the young 
stranger, he rose up from his chair, 
and advanced to meet them. Letty 
hastened forward and said, 

‘ A gentleman, a friend of Mr. 
Innisford’s, who has come to see 
you.’ 


Tilney had heard of John Cald- 
well, and his thirty thousand dollars 
that he wished to invest, and he 
received the guest therefore quite 
politely. He knew how to behave 
himself decently, when he chose to 
do so, so that he made quite an 
agreeable impression upon John. 
Tilney asked him to take a drink, 
gave him a good cigar, and was over- 
flowing in politeness. John de- 
clined the invitation to remain to 
dinner, but promised to come an- 
other day. He felt as if he must 
see Letty again. With a lingering 
glance at her, he rose at last, and 
took his leave, promising to come 
again soon. He ‘ must go now 
and kill some ducks for Mrs. Innis- 
ford.’ Tilney told him the place 
where he would have the best chances 
for good shots, and John lifted his 
hat to Letty, shook hands with Til- 
ney, and departed. Letty’s face 
haunted him. Wherever he turned 
he saw it. He talked of nothing 
else to Innisford but of how beautiful 
she was, and asked every question 
he could think of about Tilney and 
her brief history, in order to make 
Innisford talk of her. 

Innisford did not like John’s en- 
thusiasm about old Tilney’s wife at- 
all. He spoke of it to his wife in 
confidence that night, but she 
laughed at his anxiety. 

‘ Pshaw ! It is only a young 
man’s fancy for a pretty face. Let- 
tice is a very good, modest sort of 
a woman, though I don’t think she 
cares much for old Tilney. She is 
afraid of him, and that will keep 
her all straight.’ 

Innisford said no more, but he 
resolved to speak to John and cau- 
tion him about seeing too much of 
the Tilneys, either husband or wife. 


62 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


Bat in a few days John went 
again to the Tilneys. He took a 
brace of ducks that he had just killed. 

‘It is only polite to do so,’ he 
said to himself, ‘ as the old fellow 
told me where I should find the 
ducks, to take a brace to him.’ 

Tilney accepted the ducks very 
graciously. John’s coming just 
chimed very advantageously with 
a project he had been forming to try 
to get John, with his thirty thou- 
sand dollars, to invest with him as a 
partner. After several visits, he 
managed to introduce the topic of 
his lands and property, and to dis- 
cuss the probability of his selling 
out one-half of his estate, if he 
could meet with a purchaser to 
his liking. John listened eagerly, 
made many inquiries about the land, 
negroes, &c. &c., and it ended in 
Tilney’s taking him all over the 
plantation and exhibiting the whole 
estate. It certainly was a valuable 
property, and not unreasonable in 
price, it seemed to John. While 
John talked with Tilney he was 
watching Lettice, who was sitting 
on the gallery, sewing, and talking 
occasionally in French, to her dog 
Jack, who lay stretched out at her 
feet, half asleep in the sunshine. 
John thought he would give thirty 
thousand dollars, and his life to 
boot, if she only could belong to 
him. He had fallen desperately in 
love with Lettice Tilney, though 
he did not, as yet, acknowledge it 
to himself. Letty was entirely un- 
conscious of the effect she had pro- 
duced on this 1 si charmant jeune 
liomme .’ But she thought John 
was ‘ very nice — very nice, indeed.’ 
And she was glad to think her hus- 
band would have such an agreeable 
and amiable partner as John. And 
she told him so, when Tilney went 


out to give some command neces- 
sary on the plantation, and John 
walked up to where she was sitting, 
and stooped to pat Jack’s head. 

John made up his mind at that 
moment that it would be a very safe 
investment for him. 

So John Caldwell was easily per- 
suaded by Dr. Tilney to invest his 
thirty thousand dollars in buying 
half of Tilney’s land and negroes. 
Tilney had manoeuvred too much for 
himself at last. He was very keen 
and unscrupulous, but he had gotten 
beyond his depth in dealing with 
‘McIntyre and Bros.,’ and after 
trying every possible dodge allowed 
by the intricate civil law of Louisi- 
ana, he found himself fairly cornered 
by his pertinacious Scotch mer- 
chants. He had to pay up, or to 
lose his property. He lost no time, 
therefore, in endeavoring to convince 
John Caldwell that to purchase half 
of his land and to invest with him 
was the very best disposition he 
could possibly make of his money. 
Innisford was rather doubtful of the 
prudence of the arrangement, and 
had half persuaded John not to en- 
ter into partnership with Tilney, 
whom he regarded as thoroughly 
unscrupulous and cunning, to say 
the best of him. But John thought 
of Letty’s black eyes, and that he 
would be near where he might see 
her at least, and he yielded to the 
temptation, arguing stoutly against 
Innisford in regard to the uncer- 
tainty and danger of the investment. 
Tilney represented everything appa- 
rently in the fairest manner. John 
told Innisford that Tilney was ‘ a 
very good old fellow,’ in spite of his 
dubious reputation. So John Cald- 
well found himself an inmate of the 
house in which Lettice Tilney lived. 
There was no premeditated evil in 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIATUR A. 


63 


John Caldwell. He never intended 
to commit any crime ; but he was 
facile, impressionable, and slid into 
sin almost without his own consent 
or volition. Just now, he had no 
other thought in regard to Lettice 
but that it was pleasant to see her, 
agreeable to hear her talk, as she did 
sometimes with a strong French ac- 
cent in her pretty broken English. 
Very sweet John found it to watch 
her graceful, naturally coquetish 
little ways. Lettice was not a wo- 
man of strong intellect nor will. 
Tall, slight, willowy in figure, with 
tiny feet, and hands having long and 
slender fingers, rounded and taper- 
ing, with nails shaped like almonds, 
the joints of her supple, well-turned 
limbs all rounded delicately, with an 
elastic step which made her undu- 
late in a sort of serpent-like way as 
she moved about her house ; with 
her straight-chiselled, almost too 
regular, features ; her dark, lus- 
trous, languid eyes, which had a 
gleam of passion and a fiery spark 
way down in the pupil, like the mo- 
mentary glitter of a fire-stone ; with 
her perfect pale cream-white skin ; 
without a shade of color, except in 
her scarlet lips, red as a cleft pome- 
granate ; with her heavy shadowy 
mass of satiny, straight, purple- 
black hair, which fell below her knee, 
when it would sometimes drag its 
great coil from out of her comb 
where she had tucked it up, Lettice 
Tilney was a dangerously seductive 
and beautiful woman. With all the 
ardor and all the languor of her 
own climate and race incarnated in 
her, she was an enchantress to draw 
men’s souls out through their eyes, 
and then wickedly to trample them 
beneath her feet ; not from malevo- 
lence, but from weariness and satie- 
ty. As a child grows weary of its 


plaything, so would Lettice weary 
of any too long-continued emotion. 
Lettice could not be strong, even in 
wickedness. There was no strength 
in her of passion or of good. She 
reflected the will of others with 
whom she happened to be cast. She 
had a sort of childlike obstinacy, but 
no firmness either for good or evil. 
A sort of person that a student of 
human nature scarcely considers re- 
sponsible ; she was so very obtuse, 
and yet she was so graceful and so 
pretty. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ The Confederate war began. As 
I told you, we, that is, my husband 
and I, were abroad until the fall of 
1861. When we returned, the Til- 
neys had removed to Texas. John 
Caldwell had accompanied them 
there, seen them established in such 
poor way as refugees were enabled 
to be established anywhere at that 
period, then he returned and joined 
the army in Virginia. He fought 
very bravely, I wa£ told, under 
Jackson ; got a severe wound in the 
breast, which incapacitated him for 
active service ; so he succeeded in 
getting over the river and rejoining 
the Tilneys in Texas. His health 
improved under rest and the kindly 
nursing he received from Lettv, and 
he got so strong, though never en- 
tirely well, that he was able to assist 
old Tilney about the farm and in 
many ways. Then began a tale of 
passion, and miserable strife against 
it. Tilney was weaned of Letty. 
There really was nothing in her but 
her great beauty and some goodness 


64 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TUBA. 


of nature. She was not deft enough 
to please him, nor as skilful about 
the house as the quadroon woman, 
Judy ; and then Judy’s children gave 
her immense power over their un- 
worthy father. He cared for his 
children. Tilney was generally 
cross, and sometimes even cruel to 
Letty. He would, not unfrequently, 
beat her, or throw his boot at her, if 
she was not quick in her movements 
to serve him. Judy hated her with 
the jealousy and passion of her race, 
and with the feeling of rivalry natu- 
rally engendered by the position of 
the two women. John saw this, 
and his heart, which was naturally 
noble, turned to Letty in anguish of 
pity and love. Amongst Tilney’s 
slaves was an old African woman, 
who was considered as a sort of 
priestess amongst her people. She 
was a frightful-looking old hag. I 
saw her several times. In spite of 
all my labors in endeavoring to 
teach our slaves, and to relieve them 
from degrading religious supersti- 
tion, they all believed in this old 
Wana. If any illness came to them, 
they would smuggle old Wana over 
to free them from conjuring or evil 
spirits, though it was rather a belief 
in and fear ef mortal wickedness 
than spiritual, I found in their minds, 
in reference to the power of Yau- 
dooism. They were afraid of each 
other, and what they meant by con- 
juring, or ‘tricking,’ as they phrase 
it, was poisoning, or influence of 
philters and potions either for good 
or evil. I do not, myself, doubt the 
potency of many of their powders 
and herbs. They know herbs, the 
powders made from which will stu- 
pefy, will soothe, will excite passion 
or irritation ; and they use them 
skilfully to their own ends. I will 
only give example of the power of 


musk and of vanilla to excite sensual 
emotion, so well known to medical 
men ; and so, being wise in these 
qualities of plants and other natural 
substances, these Vaudoo women 
have great power over their fellows, 
and some of them are wondrous 
Mesmerists also. I know enough of 
this devil-worship Yaudooism not 
only to hate, but to fear it. Judy 
had recourse to Wana’s arts, first, 
for a philter or powder to keep her 
master on terms with herself, then 
for means to get control over Letty 
and over John. I have always be- 
lieved that half the excitement and 
miserable passion of these two un- 
fortunates was due to Judy’s pow- 
ders and potions. She kept John 
in an unnatural condition by keep- 
ing small bags of powders in his 
pillow, where it would affect him 
continually at night; and Letty she 
half stupefied with anodynes, pro- 
ducing languor and want of will. 
Letty had too little will, any how. 
Have you never seen Yaudoo bags 
and charms ? 

They are often quite pretty, 
made of bright-colored cloth, some- 
times of silk or satin, with quilled 
ribbons around them, something 
like a lady’s satchet for perfuming 
her gloves and linens, and some- 
times they are tufts of feathers, cu- 
riously tied and twisted together ; 
sometimes they are little bags, com- 
pletely covered with feathers sewn 
upon them. They are of different 
sizes. I have seen them from an 
inch to a foot in length, and they 
are by no means innocuous, as many 
suppose. There are many hellish 
rites connected with this religion, 
amongst others that of human sac- 
rifice, especially of infants, is un- 
doubtedly ascertained to be often 
practised by these deluded people. 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


65 


Wana was a little withered old mon- 
key-looking creature, who walked 
bent nearly double, leaning on a 
large stick, which the negroes be- 
lieved to be possessed of great cura- 
tive powers like the staff of the 
Prophet Elijah. She had small, 
deep-sunk, wicked eyes, scarcely 
more visible than a glowing spark 
in the deep twinkled orbits, a very 
large flat nose, and a dreadful 
mouth, whiskered like an animal’s, 
and she had a good deal of beard on 
her chin. She mumbled in talking, 
from want of teeth, but she had still 
two horrid tusks of eye-teeth pro- 
jecting from her thick lips like swine 
tusks. Her fingers were like bird 
claws, so slender and tapering, and 
so wrinkled they looked as if made of 
rhinoceros’ skin. Her head shook 
continually, as if with palsy, but she 
walked still lightly and briskly. 
Altogether she was not a pleasant 
object to behold, there was such 
an uncanny wicked aspect about 
her. She reigned like a sovereign 
over all the negroes. They spoke 
always most deferentially and with 
bated breaths to ‘ Aunt Wana,’ or 
of her. There is no service so hum- 
ble as that of dread and supersti- 
tion. * 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“An immense primeval forest of 
pine and cedar trees extended for 
miles back of the Tilney plantation. 
Letty had discovered a spot deep in 
the woods, where she had made for 
herself a peaceful place of refuge, 
to which she often fled, like a hare 
to its form, from the harassing petty 
strife and ceaseless contention, the 
peevish bickerings of her daily life. 
5 


It was a pile deep in the woods, 
sheltered by thick bushes of weep- 
ing ash and prickly musquite, which 
grew profusely matted with clam- 
bering grape-vines in a close thicket 
all around a central open spot, 
thickly carpeted by the continuous 
droppings of the fragrant pine 
leaves, shed year after year, per- 
haps since centuries, from the tops 
of the lofty trees, which canopied 
and overspread it, a hundred feet 
above. It was very lovely there, 
especially in the evening, when the 
long slanting rays of the sun glit- 
tered and glimmered between the 
lofty columnar trunks, falling in 
showers of red gold everywhere 
through the interstices, lighting up 
the heavy masses of the ancient ce- 
dars, tipping with points of light 
the ends of the white-flowered ash, 
and lingering lovingly on the golden 
bloom of the aromatic musquite, 
while the low ferns flaunted and 
waved along the margin of a tiny 
streamlet, which was scarcely visible 
as it wound along, rippling over the 
pine roots and over mosses. Letty 
would sit there hour after hour, 
when she could manage to escape 
from Judy’s prying eyes, or her hus- 
band’s qeaseless tyranny. She 
would watch the strange birds 
wheeling about the ‘ chapparal 
bushes,’ the buntings, warblers, the 
lovely fly-catchers, with their long, 
bi-forked, rose-colored tails, grace- 
ful and beautiful as birds of para- 
dise, and their sweet, loud song ; 
the wonderful flowers in which 
Texas is so rich ; the gorgeous but- 
terflies ; and as the night came 
quickly on, and stars would peep 
out, great swarms of fireflies would 
fly up from the grasses and the 
bushes, where they had been hidden 
during the day, and wheel all about 


66 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


like intoxicated little fairies; and 
often too she would see the lumi- 
nous beetle, with its blazing epau- 
lettes of phosphorescent, pulsating 
fire, creeping over the skirt of 
her gown or across her pretty 
little outstretched feet. Letty loved 
all these things. She felt an 
affinity, a oneness with all nature, 
with insects, birds, animals, flowers, 
plants, trees. Hers was a simple 
spirit. She did not need much to 
be very happy, for she had that 
rare capacity for joy which belongs 
to childlike creatures, negroes, ani- 
mals, French people. Germans pos- 
sess it to some extent — Americans 
and English people very rarely. 
Letty inherited it from her Acadian 
mother — that mother whose joyous, 
homely youth had been danced 
away in the short, bright summer 
moonlight nights of the Attakapas. 
Her infant dreams had been ani- 
mated, and her bits of baby feet 
made to move even in slumber by 
the merry sound of her father’s vio- 
lin. She received from her parents 
this heritage of joyousness, which 
had been nearly crushed and beaten 
out of her by her wretched married 
life. She was not very sensitive ; 
she had no exquisite sensibility, re- 
fined by education and sentimen- 
tality. She was not capable of very 
transcendental or analytic thought. 
She was not much educated ; she 
read pretty well ; she wrote fairly, 
with few mistakes in her spelling, and 
those she made had a sort of deli- 
cacy in them ; but her spelling was 
not worse than that of many great 
ladies used to be, and Lady Rachel 
Russell herself could not write ten- 
derer things than Letty used to 
think of. But Letty was naturally 
obtuse. She was a beautiful, ten- 
der, soft, loving animal of a woman, 


with wondrous sympathy and affini- 
ties, and powers over other animals. 
The cats crawled upon her trailing 
gown as she walked or sat about her 
house ; the dogs came and laid their 
heads upon her knees ; a pet squir- 
rel would come down from his tree 
and eat from her hand ; little chick- 
ens nestled in her bosom eagerly ; 
and the fowls ran after her every 
time she ventured out into the yard. 
Even the horses would rest their 
heads on her shoulder ; the cows 
lowed after her, and the calves and 
the sheep ran pell-mell when she 
entered the fold to lick the salt 
from her rosy fingers. Letty loved 
all animals. She would not kill 
even a spider when she could avoid 
it, and was not afraid of the slender, 
glittering grass snake as it glided 
along over her path. On this even- 
ing she had taken advantage of 
her husband’s absence and of Judy’s 
pinketing, and had quietly stolen 
to ‘ her place in the woods,’ which 
she thought no one knew of but 
herself. 

She was very wretched. She sat 
down at the foot of her pine tree 
on the soft, heaped up leaves, and 
putting her hands up to her face, she 
sighed long and heavily, she was 
so dreary, so spiritless. The ten- 
der light and joy of John’s love 
seemed to have died out of her dur- 
ing his long absence. A month to- 
day since he had gone up to the 
salt works beyond Tyler. The 
roads were heavy, the ox teams 
slow. It might be weeks before he 
could get back. The depression of 
her spirit was greater than she had 
felt it even in the blankness of her 
life before she knew John Caldwell. 
Letty was not very religious, but 
she had some vague perceptions of 
moral duties^ She was a foolish, 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIATURA. 


67 


simple thing. If her husband had | 
been decently kind to her, given 
her a few pretty clothes and trink- 
ets, old as he was and disagreeable 
as he was, she would have been 
true to him. But he tortured her 
all the time. Judy watched her, 
hated her. Judy’s children were 
impertinent to her. Her husband 
laughed at, and encouraged them in 
it. She had no friend in the world, 
none. Her stepmother was sel- 
fish, absorbed in her own family. 
She would not listen to Letty’s com- 
plainings. She said ‘ it was Let- 
ty’s want of proper spirit; that if it 
was she, she would soon settle Ju- 
dy’s hash, and make old Tilney 
stand about.’ Letty couldn’t. She 
didn’t know how to begin. She 
was neither strong nor wise. In 
all the world ‘ John ’ only was 
kind to her. ‘John!’ She whis- 
pered the name softly again and 
again to herself as she sat there in the 
gloaming, with the last sunset rays 
shimmering over her, as she sat with 
her back to the tree, weaving some 
long pine leaves in and out between 
her fingers. ‘John, dear John 1’ 
She fancied she heard a movement 
behind her. She turned her head 
to see, but there was no one, only 
the long shadows playing on the 
brown earth, so soft and fragrantly 
covered. ‘ It was a bird,’ she said, 
and turned back again to her rest- 
ing-place. But just then a shadow 
fell over her, a man knelt beside her, 
his arms were flung around her. 
‘Letty, my Letty I’ Letty’s head 
sank on his bosom, and the cry of 
surprise on her lips was checked in 
its utterance by John’s kisses. Let- 
ty behaved like a mad thing. She 
threw her arms around his neck, 
she kissed him a thousand times, 
she wept, she smiled, she laughed. 


I ‘ John, John !’ was all she could 
say. At last, when the tempest of 
her joy had spent itself in caresses, 
she questioned him of his journey, 
of the salt, of his adventures; tolcl 
him all that had occurred, since his 
departure, in their household, where 
her husband had gone to — every- 
thing she could think of. She chat- 
ted on but of the fulness of her heart, 
as innocent as a child. 

John answered as gayly as she 
asked, seemed glad he had come just 
then, when he found Letty alone, 
and told her how he had ridden on 
in advance of the wagons, leaving 
them to follow on the morrow. They 
talked and talked ; the night grew 
dusky around them ; stars peeped 
out, and fireflies flew up from the 
thickets. Letty caught a luminous 
beetle, and made John watch the 
pulsating light on its shoulders. 
She sat close, close to him, at last 
in silence. John pressed her more 
and more closely and ardently to his 
side. He put up his hand, took 
Letty’s comb out of her hair, and 
shook the dark, flossy mass all about 
her shoulders. Letty laughed at 
this. John laid his head on her 
bosom, and drew the shining veilover 
his and her head. Letty kissed him. 
John sprang op. suddenly pushed 
her from him, and, striding off from 
her a little way, leaned against atree, 
hiding his face on his hands. It 
was the crisis of their lives. Good 
and evil angels battled in his soul 
for empire. He remembered every- 
thing, his promise to Innisford, his 
duty to this poor childish woman, 
his engagements with Tilney, God, 
virtue, and the world. John Cald- 
well thought of all this, but passion 
surged in his veins, his face burnt 
like fire. He looked towards Let- 
ty. She sat with her hands crossed 


68 


A SOUTHERN V1LLEG GIATURA. 


in her lap looking anxiously at him. 
It was light enough to see her 
beautiful, anxious face, the dreamy 
brown eyes, stretched widely, like a 
grieved fawn’s ; glittering with tears 
they seemed in the dim starlight. 
Her long, straight, heavy hair fell 
over and around her till it lay upon 
the ground. ‘ John, oh John !’ 
she whispered, deprecatingly. With 
a smothered exclamation of ‘D — n’t !’ 
John Caldwell turned slowly to- 
wards her. His steps quickened as 
he drew nearer. He threw himself 
on the earth beside her. He clasped 
her in his arms. He kissed her hands, 
her knees, her bosom, her eyes, her 
hair, her lips. He drew her to him. 
The night was dark, closing fast 
around them. Letty sobbed on 
John’s breast. 

Two hours later, Letty Tilney 
stole into her husband’s house with 
unsteady, noiseless steps. Judy 
was extended on the kitchen floor, 
asleep in a drunken stupor. Her 
children were snoring loudly in their 
shanty. There was neither fire nor 
light. Letty made neither up. 
Hastily taking off her clothes in the 
darkness, she slipped into her bed. 
Alas 1 

Letty’s dreams that night were 
feverish. Agonizing -joy and ago- 
nizing shame mingled in them. 

John returned home on the next 
day after Tilney had gotten back 
from C. He came in with the wagon 
of salt from Tyler. His face was 
very pale. He seemed broken down 
by his long journey. He was very 
quiet and silent, looked like a man 
exhausted from long illness or the 
strife of passion. He scarcely spoke 
to Letty. 


CHAPTER XI V. 

Tilney returned in high spirits. 
He had made a good sale of his 
corn, receiving from the quarter- 
master stationed at C — a quantity 
of cloth, sugar, and calico in barter, 
for Tilney was not enough of a 
patriot to take Confederate money in 
any shape, either bonds or notes. 
The Texans, from the beginning of 
the war, refused paper money. They 
had a direct trade with Mexico, and 
Mexico will trade only for gold or 
silver. As the quartermaster had 
no specie, and needed the corn, he 
yielded at last to Tilney’s obstinacy, 
and bartered with him such goods 
as the old man saw fit to take in 
return for his produce. Tilney knew 
that he could readily sell to the peo- 
ple about him such articles of luxury 
as these at an advance of forty or 
fifty per cent., receiving from them 
gold or silver. So he stroked his 
wise old head more persistently and 
caressingly than usual, on his return, 
and in his self-gratulation even 
went so far as to kiss Letty and give 
her a broad red ribbon for her hair. 
Judy’s black eyes flamed with anger 
when she witnessed this unusual and 
lover-like attention from her master 
towards his wife. Her jealous rage 
was scarcely appeased when, an hour 
later, Tilney entered into the kitchen, 
put his arm around her capacious 
waist, and saluting her brown cheek 
quite as affectionately as he had done 
Letty’s lips, he presented her with a 
couple of yellow and red Madras 
kerchiefs for her head, and enough 
of white cotton to make each of the 
three children a new shirt and frock. 
Judy at first turned her head disdain- 
fully aside, but yielding at last to 
the brilliant splendors of the hand- 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


69 


kerchiefs and to Tilney’s tender ca- 
resses, she smiled, and throwing her 
arms about his neck, she kissed the 
old man warmly. Just at this mo- 
ment, John Caldwell passed by the 
low window of the kitchen, and 
glancing in, involuntarily, was an 
unexpected witness of the affection- 
ate scene. The blood flushed up 
quickly in John’s face, and his eyes 
flashed as he beheld it, and thought 
that in a few moments Letty, his 
Letty, must be subjected to the de- 
graded embraces of this depraved 
old man. John quickened his steps 
almost into a run, and never paused 
in his rapid stride until he found 
himself again in the deep pine wood, 
and threw himself down on the spot 
where he and Letty had met the 
night before. He covered his 
face with his hands, and groaned 
aloud. Tears began soon to trickle 
through his fingers, and the power- 
ful young man threw himself pros- 
trate in a burst of passionate grief 
which convulsed his whole frame. 
‘Oh, Letty 1 Letty! My God! I 
have been no good friend to you, 
and yet I love you — love you, my 
darling ! and it sets me wild to look 
at that old devil ! God ! I could 
murder him ! My fingers itch to get 
at his hypocritical old throat !’ John 
raged awhile in his impotent grief 
and indignation, mingled as it was 
with jealousy and passion, until his 
convulsive sobs and sighs gradually 
died away as the softer recollections 
induced by his surroundings surged 
uppermost in his soul. His thoughts 
traversed with electric speed over 
his whole life before and since he 
met Letty that day, registered in 
his memory — the day at the water- 
hole. He thought of his innocent 
youth ; of the true friendship of In- 
nisford ; of his earnest entreaties 


and melancholy forebodings ; of his 
promise to Innisford ; of his lament- 
able failure to keep that promise. 
He tried to convince himself that it 
was impossible for him to act other- 
wise than he had ; that he could not 
even now get any settlement of the 
affairs of the partnership out of Til- 
ney; -that it would be cruel to quit 
Letty now, after all that had passed ; 
that it was his duty as a man to stay 
near her, to protect her as far as he 
could, now that she had a dearer 
and nearer claim upon him : ‘ For 
she is mine — my wife, in the sight 
of Heaven,’ said John, ‘sold to that 
old devil ! She is nothing but a 
slave to him ; put even below the 
feet of his negro slave.’ 

It was late before John got back 
to the cabins. The lights were all 
out, the kitchen fire carefully covered 
over with the raked-up ashes. He 
uncovered the coals, threw on a few 
pine fagots which he found lying in 
a corner. The fire soon blazed up 
merrily. Looking about, he spied 
at last, on a little table in a corner, 
neatly covered with a coarse, white, 
homespun towel, a plate of cold 
sliced pork, a piece of corn bread, 
and a cup of cold imitation coffee 
made from parched meal, a little 
sugar, and a small pitcher of milk ; 
in a saucer were a few spoonfuls of 
blackberry jam ; a small sugar-cake 
shaped clumsily, but carefully, in the 
shape of a heart, and pricked all 
over with a fork in the baking. He 
recognized Letty’s thoughtfulness 
and consideration for his comfort in 
the poor little cake, and he warmed 
his corn coffee and ate his supper 
with a heart filled with emotions of 
agonizing tenderness, pity for Let- 
ty, and of devouring jealousy and 
hatred towards Letty’s husband. 
As he bent over the fire coals, after 


70 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


his meal was ended, he seemed to 
see written in the flickering flame 
the words George Innisford had 
said so solemnly, ‘ Thou shalt not 
covet thy neighbor’s wife.” Harm 
will come of it — harm will surely 
come.’ With a shudder, John 
roused himself, shook himself like a 
huge Newfoundland dog as if to 
shake off disagreeable thought, and 
crept into his rough bed — a few 
naked boards, covered with a couple 
of gray blankets. Even there Letty 
had thought of him. There was a 
nice soft pillow, covered with a 
white slip, for his head. Letty had 
taken one of her jaconet frocks — 
remnant of her former finery — and 
made this slip, with broad ruffles all 
around it. That very day she had 
stolen into John’s room and laid it 
secretly on his bed during his ab- 
sence. John kissed the pillow, and 
laying it beneath his head, passed 
his arm underneath, and clasping 
the other above his head, went to 
sleep, embracing Letty’s pillow. 
But he said no prayer that night. 
He began as usual, ‘Our Father 
who art in heaven,’ then stopped. 
‘I can’t be a hypocrite. I am not 
fit to say a prayer, and I don’t want 
to do any better !’ He hugged the 
pillow closer and dropped asleep. 

When Judy went to smooth up the 
bed the next morning, she observed 
the fine pillow, and examiningitclose- 
ly, she recognized the ruffles she had 
so often washed of one of Letty’s 
finest and most cherished gowns. 
‘Umph!’ said the mulattress, ‘the 
charm ’s a workin’.’ She took the 
Yaudoo bag out of the head of the 
palliasse, and ripping open the pil- 
low, she stuffed it in that, then re- 
placed the pillow on the bed. John 
began again to complain of the 
drowsiness which had beset him so 


before he went up to the salt-works, 
and from which he had been entirely 
free during his brief journey. Letty, 
too, was languid, spiritless ; ‘out of 
sorts,’ Tilney said. Poor Letty 
soon began to be very much ‘ out 
of sorts.” She had headache all the 
time, was wretchedly weak and mis- 
erable. She lost appetite, flesh, 
buoyancy. Judy watched her like 
a serpent ready to spring, awaiting 
her moment. She knew very soon 
what ailed Letty. ‘Pretty soon,’ 
she muttered, ‘pretty soon I’ll have 
the madam turned out o’ this here 
’stablishment, an’ then my chillun ’ll 
have room to spread and stir ’bout.’ 
She assumed new manners towards 
Letty — cajoling, conciliatory man- 
ners, coming often to offer her such 
poor dainties as she could command, 
watching her like a hawk ; and when 
she was obliged to attend to duties 
which took Letty out of her super- 
vision, she put her eldest son, Juba, 
on watch over Letty. One evening 
Juba came running to his mammy, 
who was occupied in doing some 
washing. ‘ Mammy, Miss done gone 
out.” 

‘ Where V 

‘ She done gone inter de woods. 
I’s afraid to follow her in dar, dere’s 
bar and painters dar.’ 

Judy took her hands out of the 
hot suds, and wringing them dry, 
wiped them on her apron. ‘You 
stay here den, Juba, until I come 
back, and watch the clo’s, so the 
dogs nor nuthin ’sturbs ’em. I’ll 
be back in a minit.’ 

Judy started off in a walk which 
soon changed into a fast trot down 
the field after Letty, going, how- 
ever, so that she would not intercept 
Letty, nor be seen by her. Letty 
sauntered leisurely along in the fee- 
ble, listless mode she had fallen into 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TUB A . 


U 


lately, looking neither to right nor 
left, no longer stopping to notice the 
butterflies or birds and wild flowers, 
as she used to. Yet there was a light 
in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks 
that she had not had resting there for 
months, not since John’s return from 
the salt works. Letty’s soul was 
torn by conflicting emotions of 
shame, love, and joy. For that 
morning, as she had turned away in 
disgust from her breakfast, her hus- 
band had come to her, gazed into 
her quivering face, and chucking 
her under the chin, had laughed 
coarsely as he said, ‘ So, my girl, 
you can’t eat your breakfast, hey ! 
I guess I’ll have to send for Dr. 
Stearns, or will his old mammy 
answer your purpose better ? hey ?’ 
Letty’s face flushed all over as she 
understood for the first time what 
ailed her. Her husband was a 
physician, and recognized her symp- 
toms. Letty felt it was true, and 
her heart gave a great leap and throb 
of joy, as she felt that there was a 
little life beneath it, so close to it, 
a life which sprang from hers and 
from — John’s. Tilney saw the sud- 
den irradiation of Letty’s counte- 
nance, and the better nature within 
him was roused for a moment. He 
bent quite softly over Letty as she 
sat, and kissed her forehead. ‘ Let- 
ty, if you’ll give me a good, bounc- 
ing boy, I’ll be a better man, and 
make you a happier woman !’ Let- 
ty said nothing. She sat there mo- 
tionless, catching her breath strong- 
ly and hysterically. Tilney went to 
the well and brought her a gourd of 
water and held it to her lips, and 
patting her on the shoulder, said : 

‘ There ! there ! Be a good girl ! 
It will all come right I’ 

Letty burst out into a fit of cry- 
ing, but her tears were not from sor- 


row. Tilney gave her a few drops 
of hartshorn in a teaspoonful of 
water, and left her, advising her to 
go and lie down and quiet herself. 
Letty lay quiet all day. She had 
heard John’s steps as he came in to 
dinner with Tilney, and John had 
asked Judy where she was. Tilney 
had answered with a laugh and a 
coarse reply, giving his version of 
Letty’s indisposition. John asked 
no further questions, but ate his 
dinner in silence. As he passed 
Letty’s door, before going out to 
work after dinner, he paused, look- 
ing carefully around to see if any 
one was near; he found that he was 
alone. He heard the voices of Til- 
ney and the men in the cattle-yard, 
and Judy was berating her children 
in the kitchen. John lifted the 
latch, and opened Letty’s door a 
little way. ‘My darling 1’ he whis- 
pered, ‘ are you very sick V 

Letty started up from her bed. 
She was lying down, with her long 
hair streaming over her shoulders. 
‘No, dear John ! not very sick.’ 

John ventured in, threw his arms 
around her, and kissed her. 

‘ My darling ! my darling ! I 
have just heard from — him — ’ John 
could not say ‘your husband.’ 
The words choked him. ‘ My Let- 
ty 1 my own 1 can’t you meet me 
at the old place in the woods some 
time this evening — late ? I’ll go 
there and wait till you come. I 
must see you, my darling !’ 

Letty whispered ‘ I will’ very 
faintly, burying her head in John’s 
bosom to hide her burning face. 
John pressed her close to him, 
kissed her hair, and fled, hearing 
Tilney’s footfall on the outer step 
of the porch. Letty got up and 
shut to her door, and lay down 
again, covering up her head with 


n 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


her hands and her long hair. Late 
in the evening, about the time that 
Tilney usually rode out to look af- 
ter the cattle, she rose, dressed 
herself carefully, and stole out soft- 
ly, hoping to escape Judy’s prying 
eyes, or expecting at any rate that 
Judy would think she was only 
going for a walk. Juba had been 
ordered to watch her, however, and 
when he saw from the corner of the 
yard, where he was engaged in the 
manufacture of mud pies, that Letty 
crept quietly out of the front door 
while his mammy was busy in the 
backyard, he ran and told Judy of 
the prisoner’s escape. 

The lovers met in their old tryst- 
ing place in the pine wood, and 
Letty sobbed out her tale between 
blushes of shame and smiles of joy 
upon John’s breast. He soothed 
and caressed her, and when they 
parted at last Letty’s cheek was 
flushed, but dimpling with smiles. 
She had cast aside all fear for the 
future. John had sworn to ‘bide 
with her, come weal or woe, at least 
until her troubles were over.” He 
knew, when he made the oath, he 
would find it hard to keep. His 
light wound was entirely healed. 
He had only leave on furlough for 
three months, and the officers had 
begun to be strict in looking after 
missing or delinquent men. But he 
set his teeth, and made the oath 
which comforted Letty, and which 
he resolved to keep as long as there 
were impenetrable forests and vast 
prairies to hide in. So Innisford’s 
prophecies were all being fulfilled. 
John had committed every crime he 
so sadly foresaw. He had lost his 
honor as a man and a soldier for 
this woman’s love — the wife of an- 
other man. Near by, hidden in the 
thicket of scrubby bushes, the lovers, 


had they been en garde and watch- 
ful, might have seen two glittering 
eyes, black as night, but lit with fire 
of Erebus, bent upon them in eager, 
fiendish joy. Judy had tracked her 
prey to its covert. Now she only 
waited the proper moment to strike 
death to both ; or, at least, death to 
John and shame to Letty. The 
lovers parted, and Letty hurried 
home, drawing her thin shawl around 
her no longer willowy form. Judy 
slid out in the dusk and followed 
her, creeping along in the deep 
shadow of the fences. Letty was 
at the supper-table that evening, and 
ate her supper of milk and hominy 
with apparent relish. Tilney came 
in, and, throwing asmall brown paper 
parcel on the table before her, said, 

‘ There, Letty ; I went into C — 
this evening, and got that d — d 
quartermaster to let me have a few 
pounds of coffee for you. It is 
worth its weight in gold, my girl ; 
so take care of it and make it go as 
far as you can.’ Tilney’s voice and 
manner were kinder than Letty had 
noticed them since the earliest days of 
their miserable marriage. The only 
tender point in the man’s nature had 
been touched. He loved his chil- 
dren, half animal as he was, and he 
was interested now for Letty. Letty 
gulped down her milk with a choked 
sob, and controlling her trembling 
voice, shaken by her consciousness 
of guilt, she thanked him. Tilney 
kissed her forehead, and turning to 
John, who sat at the table eating 
his supper, he nodded knowingly, 
and winked his eye. John felt a 
surge of tempestuous hatred rush 
through him. It made him quiver, 
as he sat half hidden by the table, 
with his head bent down over his 
bowl of imitation coffee. He ut- 
tered an exclamation, ‘ D — n 1’ 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


73 


and pushed his chair back, as if the 
very hot drink had burnt his mouth, 
then, rising hastily, he muttered 
something about looking after the 
mules, and hastened out of the room. 
Tilney’s conjugal felicities were 
more than he could endure with pa- 
tience. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Amongst the neighbors of the 
Tilneys in their new home was a 
man named William Moore, a wild, 
reckless sort of a man, who spent 
his whole time in hunting and chas- 
ing in the woods and on the prairies. 
He was a worthless fellow, given to 
drink and every bad habit of life. 
He had a pack of bloodhounds, 
which were so dangerous that they 
had to be kept leashed with strong 
chains, with which he used to hunt 
deer, and chase long-eared mule rab- 
bits, and I heard it said he some- 
times would run down a negro or an 
escaped prisoner, either from the jail 
or other places where they were kept 
during the war. His great occupa- 
tion and chief delight, when I saw 
him, were to chase conscripts. I 
have met him sometimes on the 
prairie, rushing by at full speed of 
his mustang, with his fearful pack 
running after him, with their red 
tongues hanging out, as they fol- 
lowed him at full speed silently, for 
they don’t bark or yelp or give 
tongue in coursing, like other dogs. 
I would shudder to see them. I had 
a horror of the man, and of his dogs. 
He was a man over fifty years, with 
long, grizzled, shaggy hair and 
beard, always dirty and disgusting 
to appearance. I often heard peo- 


ple say, ‘ William Moore would do 
anything for five dollars.’ He was 
a man without morality or virtue of 
any sort, except a sort of bull-dog 
courage and brute force. He had a 
quarrel with old Tilney about some 
personal matter, and Moore was a 
man who never forgave. 

Months passed on. Judy’s venge- 
ance was not yet ripe. Letty, as time 
advanced, sank more and more into 
a stupid lethargy of mute sufferance. 
She had grown very silent. Never 
was heard song from her lips, as in 
former days. Even when Judy and 
Tilney had been most cruel, one 
could sometimes hear from her lips, 
when alone, the gay chansant of her 
Acadian home. She scarcely ever 
spoke to any one. She moved slowly, 
and without spirit or life, about her 
necessary duties. Tilney was kind 
to her now, but she never lifted her 
eyes to his, or looked into his face. 
She did his bidding like a dumb 
slave, and she clung to John with 
a clasp of despair. 

The months passed — six — seven 
months. Letty’s time of trial was 
approaching. Some small offence 
she gave to Judy precipitated the 
sword upon Letty’s head which had 
been suspended over it so long a 
time. One evening Letty was sit- 
ting in her own room, sewing, her 
heart full of dumb wretchedness, 
when the door was violently thrown 
open, and her husband came in, his 
face pale and set with fierce rage. 
He made one stride to where she 
sat, and seized her by the arm, jerked 
her from her seat, and cast her forci- 
bly against the floor. He stood as 
if he meant to crush her under his 
feet. He lifted his foot and kicked 
her; but he did not stamp upon her, 
as Letty expected, and as he for an 
instant meant to. She gave a low 


74 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


cry of pain and fear. Tilney drew 
back his foot. 

‘ No, God d — n you ! get up, 
vile woman 1 I’ll not kill you right 
off. I’ll torture your life out of you. 
I’ll make you die by inches, till 
you’ll pray to be put an end to. I 
know all your tricks, and the deceit 
of that d — d scoundrel ! I’ll be even 
with you both ! Mark me ! No man 
nor woman ever wronged Jack Til- 
ney and escaped vengeance, and you 
won’t. Get up !’ 

Letty struggled to rise, but she 
was not able. Tilney had hurt her. 
She sank with a moan back on the 
floor. Tilney seized her by the 
shoulders, dragged her up, and flung 
her violently on the bed. Letty 
screamed as she fell. The physical 
agony was too great for constraint. 
John heard her. He had just come 
in from the field. He sprang into 
the house, and dashed in the plank 
board door by main force. Tilney 
had bolted it inside. 

‘God! are you murdering her?’ 
exclaimed John, as he saw Letty 
writhing on the bed, and Tilney 
standing over he^ 

Tilney’s reply was an oath, and 
he turned towards John and tried to 
strike him. John caught his arm, 
and, grappling him, lifted him fairly 
up from his feet and flung him out 
of the room. Tilney fell with a 
crash. Judy came running, scream- 
ing ; the children yelled ; some of 
the men rushed in from the lot ad- 
joining the house, on hearing the 
cries of fright. Judy was hanging 
on to John’s arms, as he stood over 
Tilney’s prostrate body, vainly en- 
deavoring to disembarrass himself 
from her. The children clung 
around his legs, biting and scratch- 
ing like young tigers. Three of the 
men seized hold of John and held 


him fast, while others lifted Tilney 
and bore him off to Judy’s room. 

‘Let me go!’ said John; ‘I’ll 
not harm him just now. Let me 
go!’ 

“No,” said the men, “you must 
go away out of the house now, until 
you get cool. What was you an’ 
the ole man a fightin’ about, any- 
how ?” 

‘God! let me go!’ shouted 
John, almost beside himself, as he 
heard Letty moan. ‘ He’s killed 
her, I believe !” 

‘ Lord ! who is it he’s done 
killed ?’ asked the negroes, still 
holding John in a grasp he could 
not escape from. 

‘Letty, I tell you ! Letty!’ 

‘ Now, look here, Mass John ! 
’taint none o’ your bizness to go to 
interfarin’ ’tween a man an’ his wife. 
Wimmen have to be licked some- 
times to keep ’em straight. I gives 
it to my wife, sometimes, an’ does 
her good, too. Now, you’ll come 
along with us, an’ I’ll send Zara up 
to see arter the mistress.’ 

They were resolute; so John had 
to yield and be marched out of the 
house, ignominiously pinioned on 
each side by a powerful negro man, 
with the third walking behind him, 
ready to aid if the prisoner showed 
any insubordination. They took 
him down to a cabin not far off, and 
upon his agreeing to keep quiet, 
they sent the woman Zara, a kind 
creature, to see after Letty. 

‘ For God’s sake, come back and 
tell me how she is !’ said John, be- 
seechingly, to the woman. 

John spent an anxious half hour 
walking up and down the narrow 
log cabin, watched by the three cap- 
tors, when Zara returned with com- 
forting intelligence. She said Letty 
was better ; that the fall had given 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G G1A TURA. 


75 


her intense momentary pain, but 
she had fallen on her arm, and had 
only sprained her wrist a little. She 
had bathed it and pulled it straight, 
and wrapped it in cold cloths, and 
Letty was lying quiet now. Til- 
ney, she said, was still in Judy’s 
room, and his head was hurt, but 
not so very much, Judy said. 

‘ Men,’ said John, ‘ I’ll give 
you ten dollars apiece if you’ll let 
me speak only once to Letty. You 
can go with me to the door, and I’ll 
come right out of the house, and I 
give you my word I’ll not speak to 
or see Tilney to-night.’ 

The men consulted together, and 
consented, if John would ‘fork 
over the money right off,’ to grant 
his request. 

‘Well, go just with me to my 
room, and I’ll get you the money ; 
then you’ll go to Mrs. Tilney’s 
room with me.’ 

They agreed. John gave them 
the money out of his trunk, which 
he unlocked, taking advantage of 
the moment to slip his revolver into 
his pocket, as they examined the sil- 
ver pieces one by one, for they 
would not take paper money. They 
insisted on Mexican dollars. Then 
they accompanied John to Letty’s 
door. He went in alone. They 
heard him speak in a smothered 
tone, and listened to Letty’s whis- 
pered reply, but they could not 
catch the words. 

John said, ‘ My darling ! are you 
much hurt V 

‘ No !’ whispered Letty, ‘ not 
much now ! But he’s going to kill 
me. He said so. I know he will. 
I am so afraid 1’ 

‘ Don’t be afraid !’ said John. 

‘ Can’t you let me carry you to Za- 
ra’s cabin ? She’ll look after you, 
and I’ll watch over you, and it is | 


more than that old devil will dare to 
do to come near you. To-morrow, if 
you are able to travel, I’ll take you 
away from here — some place where 
you’ll be safe.’ 

Letty made no reply, but held 
out her arms. John took her up 
and walked slowly and carefully out 
of the door, carrying her past the 
astonished negroes, who, however, 
made no effort to stop him, but fol- 
lowed in his wake to Zara’s cottage. 
John laid Letty down on the hum- 
ble bed. 

‘Zara,’ he said, ‘you belong to 
me, you know, not to Tilney. If 
you’ll take care of Miss Letty I’ll' 
give you your freedom, papers and 
all, when I go away from here with 
her.’ 

Zara said, ‘ Sure, I’ll do it an’ 
thank you, too, master, ’specially if 
you’ll stay about and keep us from 
harm.’ 

John laughed lightly and pulled 
out his revolver, and made the cock 
click as he held it. 

Zara shook her head approving- 
ly. ‘ All right, sir ! I’ll do my 
part.’ 

John dismissed the negro men, 
making oath not to go near the 
house where Tilney was, and the 
men believed him, knowing he 
would not be likely to quit Letty. 

He sat down outside the cabin 
all night, revolver in hand. 

But Tilney never came near him. 
Judy kept him informed of all of 
John’s proceedings. 

The next morning John got two 
horses of his own from the stable- 
yard, put Letty’s saddle on one of 
them, and his own on another. He 
sent one of the men into the house 
for his trunk, which he placed in 
the care of one of his own negroes. 
He took out a considerable sum of 


T6 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIATURA. 


money he had in his trunk in a bag, 
and fastened it around his waist. 
Then he made Letty eat some 
breakfast, tied her sun-bonnet and 
shawl on her, and lifted her into her 
saddle, taking her bridle reins in 
his left hand. She said she was 
able to ride, and she was very im- 
patient to get away. She was in 
mortal fear of Tilney. John car- 
ried her off through the woods ten 
miles to William Moore’s shanty, 
where he thought he could rely on 
Moore’s cupidity to keep Letty safe 
for awhile until he might seek a 
better asylum for her. 

Moore was lounging before his 
shanty when John rode up with his 
unwonted companion. In a few 
brief sentences John explained the 
position of affairs. Moore gave a 
shrill whistle, then a laugh. 

* So you have got into a fine mess 
of a quarrel! Well, bring her in. 
Women make the devil’s own broth 
in this world, I do believe ! Down, 
Jingo, down ! Out of the way, 
Towser !’ speaking authoritatively 
to his dreadful dogs, who came 
sniffling around John rather mali- 
ciously. William Moore led the way 
into his rough shanty. But it was 
a paradise to Letty. She felt safe 
with John and this great wild man, 
and his fierce dogs guarding the 
hovel on the outside. So she 
smiled and cowered down almost 
cheerfully near the fire, which Moore 
struck into a fresh blaze, throwing 
on some pine knots and kicking the 
embers together with his foot. She 
was very tired and very hungry. 
She ate eagerly of the bread and 
meat Moore proffered her — corn 
bread and fresh venison — which he 
kept his larder always supplied 
with, when it was in season, by his 
hunting. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

The next morning Moore and 
John Caldwell started off to ride 
into C — to buy some more delicate 
provisions needful for Letty, as 
John thought. They left Letty safe 
in the care of the big dogs, which 
Moore turned loose on the outside 
of the hut, warning Letty not to 
venture out during their absence. 
They had gotten within a few miles 
of their destination — John had be- 
gun to be cheerful, laughing and 
talking with wild Bill Moore — when, 
just as they entered a dark forest 
road, which lasted for two miles, 
they espied a man riding leisurely on 
in front of them. Will Moore had 
been saying something about Tilney, 
and John replied with an oath 
‘ that he would like to kill the old 
devil. He would give five thousand 
dollars if he was dead and out of 
everybody’s way.’ 

The man riding before them 
turned his head. It was Tilney. 
John recognized the long, shaggy, 
gray locks. 

‘God! it is Tilney!’ he ex- 
claimed. 

At the same instant, Tilney saw 
who his pursuers, as he supposed, 
were. Wheeling his horse suddenly 
round, he drew out his pistol, and 
shot at John. The bullet whistled 
past John’s head, and buried itself 
in a maple tree just behind him. 
John spurred his horse forward, and 
fired his revolver at Tilney. Tilney 
wavered in his saddle, but grasping 
the mane of his horse, he fired again, 
this time hitting John in the right 
arm. John seized his pistol in his 
left hand, but his aim, from the 
awkwardness of handling of the 
weapon, and from weakness caused 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 11 


by loss of blood which begun to flow 
from his wound, made him miss Til- 
ney. The next moment, both com- 
batants were lying on the ground, 
fallen off* their horses, both fainting 
from severe wounds. 

‘ Devil !’ said William Moore, 

‘ here’s a nice kettle of fish !’ 

Springing fi;om his horse, he went 
to John Caldwell and freed his foot' 
from the stirrup, where it was still 
dragging, and looked at John’s arm, 
whence the blood was slowly oozing. 
William tied it up with John’s hand- 
kerchief ; then, leaving John, he 
went up to Tilney. Tilney had 
fallen clear of his horse, and was 
lying over on his face in a dead 
swoon. He was shot in the shoulder. 
The bullet had passed through, 
breaking the collar-bone and coming 
out behind the shoulder blade. As 
Moore turned him over on his back, 
the old man sighed and opened his 
eyes. 

‘ Still alive 1 d — n you I’ mut- 
tered Moore. ‘ I’ll just finish you, 
and make Caldwell pay me the five 
thousand dollars 1’ and the ruffian 
pulled out his hunting-knife and cut 
the old man’s throat as coolly as if 
it had been that of a buck. Then 
he wiped his knife on his victim’s 
coat, and put it back in the sheath. 
Then he proceeded to rifle Tilney’s 
pockets of their contents. While 
he was engaged in this work, John 
Caldwell came to his senses, lifted 
himself upon his left arm, and called 
feebly to Moore. 

‘God, Moore ! is he dead ?’ 

‘Yes,’ said Moore, ‘ dead enough 1 
I finished him ! so you’ll have to 
shell out the five thousand, old 
fellow I’ 

John groaned and sank back on 
the ground. ‘ My God, Moore, 
how could you do it in cold blood ? 


The man was a fiend, but he was 
old.’ 

‘Bother! d — n your softhearted- 
ness ! You wanted him dead, and 
he is dead, and I am going to have 
ray money ; but we had better get 
out of this ! Can you ride ?’ 

* Yes.’ 

‘ Get up, then. Let me catch 
your horse for you. Now, let me 
help you.’ 

Moore put his hand out to aid 
John in mounting, John shrank 
back from the touch of his blood- 
stained hand. Moore laughed, seized 
John with both hands, and pushed 
him up on to the saddle. 

‘ Booh ! you are very squeamish. 
What is it to you, if I don’t mind ? 
— and I don’t mind. He wasn’t fit 
to live. I did a good job in putting 
an end to the old miserayant ! But 
ride up ; we must get on back home. 
Come ! I know a way through the 
woods.’ Moore dashed the rowels 
of his huge Mexican spurs into his 
horse’s flanks, and fled, by a path 
known only to himself, the nearest 
route to his shanty. John followed 
as closely as his pain and weakness 
permitted. 

They made some excuse to Letty 
for John’s having shot himself acci- 
dentally with his pistol. Moore had 
some skill in treating wounds. He 
soon dressed John’s arm, so it was 
comparatively comfortable, then 
went to rest himself. John tossed 
on his rude bed of hay and skins, in 
fever from his wound, harassed with 
mental anxiety and anguish. Letty 
sat by, soothing him as well as she 
could ; but sometimes John would 
push her away from him, as if he 
almost loathed her ; then he would 
snatch her to him and cover her face 
and hands with burning kisses of 
love and despair. 


T8 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


‘Letty, Letty,’ he moaned, ‘you 
have cost me dear, my Letty 1’ 
William Moore slept quietly as 
an infant, with his arms peacefully 
crossed over his breast. He had no 
instinct of conscience nor of re- 
morse. He had lived with Apaches 
and fought with Mexicans too much 
for that. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

In the afternoon of the day fol- 
lowing, John was lying on his pal- 
let, groaning from the pain of his 
wound. Letty was cooling the band- 
age on it with water. William Moore 
was sitting on a bench outside of the 
shanty whistling to his dogs, which 
were grouped around him, waiting 
eagerly for the trimmings and en- 
trails of a raccoon that Moore was 
engaged in skinning and preparing 
for the pot aufeu. Suddenly there 
rose up a great noise of barking of 
dogs and shouts of encouragement 
of men from the forest beyond the 
hut. Moore laid down his ‘coon’ 
and knife and listened intently. 
Then he sprang to his feet and 
bounded into the hut. 

‘ Save yourself, John ! I hear 
the cry of Joe Beaver’s cursed dogs, 
and I recognize the voice of the 
sheriff, Albert Tyler. They have 
found the old cuss’s body, and have 
put the dogs on our trail — and, 
d — n ’em, they’re on us. Look out ! 
I’m off.’ 

Snatching his gun from the cor- 
ner where it was standing, catching 
up his powder-flask and shot-pouch, 
Moore leaped out of the opening in 
the logs which served for the back 
window, and was out of sight in a 


minute. Letty stood with blanched 
face and clasped hands. 

‘ What is it, John ? What is 
it?’ she asked. 

John groaned and drew the cov- 
ering up over his face ; he whispered, 

‘ I can’t dodge, Letty ; it is no 
use. I shot Tilney, but I did not 
kill him. I did not shoot until after 
he shot me twice.’ 

‘Was he killed V' and Letty’s 
face grew ghastly wan as. she asked 
the question. 

‘ Yes.’ 

‘ By Moore ?’ asked Letty. 

John hesitated. ‘ I can’t say, 
Letty, if I knew. I fainted dead 
away when I was shot, and fell off 
my horse, and when I came to myself 
Moore was with me and Tilney was 
dead.’ 

“ Oh, John ! hadn’t you better 
hide ? Listen, they are nearly here. 
John, oh, hide ! Come, I can help 
you. Oh, try to get away ! I’ll 
turn the dogs loose, and they’ll keep 
’em back awhile ! John, try to get 
away !’ Before John could stop 
her Letty was out of the house in 
the midst of the fierce dogs. They 
growled and seemed about to spring 
at her and tear her into pieces. 
But she went boldly up to the two 
fiercest, put her hands on the chain 
which held them, and threw it loose. 
The dogs sprang out free. Letty 
spoke to them, and they seemed af- 
fected at the sound of her voice. They 
sniffed around her and crouched at 
her feet. In a few minutes she had 
the whole eight loose. Then she 
sprang back into the door of the 
hovel and barred it firmly. She 
uttered a cry of despair, though, 
when she saw that John had made 
no attempt to move from his pallet. 

‘ It’s no use, Letty,’ he said ; ‘ I 
couldn’t get a hundred yards if I 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


79 


were to try, and I must bide my 
fate here. I would have killed Til- 
ney in fair fight if I could, but I’ll 
swear I never murdered him in cold 
blood. If I am taken, I will say 
that much, at any rate, for myself.’ 

Letty wrung her hands. ‘Oh, 
John! oh, John ! this all for me I 
Oh, if I were but dead ! before you 
ever got into this dreadful trouble, 
and all for me. John ! my John !’ 

‘Come here, Letty.’ Letty sat 
down by the bed. John put his 
head on her shoulder and his well 
arm around her. ‘ Letty, my dar- 
ling ! I hope it may all come out 
right ! But if it don’t, try and make 
your way to Mrs. Dulany. You’ll 
find my money hid under the straw 
mattress of this bed.’ Letty sobbed. 
She hardly heard what John was 
saying to her, but the words came 
back to her and served to guide her 
poor, distraught mind in the hour 
of her greatest emergency. Now 
the baying of the approaching posse 
of dogs and the cries of the men 
drew nearer. A moment, and Letty 
heard the growls of Moore’s dogs as 
the strangers surrounded the house. 
Their dogsand Moore’s plunged into 
a grand fight in an instant. 

‘ Come out, Moore ! d — n you ! 
come out!’ yelled the men as they 
struck on the window and door with 
their whip-handles, afraid to dis- 
mount on account of Moore’s dogs, 
renowned for their savage fierceness. 

‘ Go to them, Letty !’ said John ; 
‘open the door!’ Letty, trem- 
bling in every limb, crept to the 
door and opened it. The men were 
threatening with dreadful oaths to 
burn it down and smoke Moore out 
of his lair, wild beast that he was. 

Their countenanceschanged when, 
instead of Moore, the pale, shrinking 
form of a woman stood before them. 


1 Who are you, and where ’s Wil- 
liam Moore V demanded the leader, 
the sheriff of the county. Letty 
hesitated, then replied, tremulously, 

‘I am Lettice Tilney, and I don’t 
know where William Moore is.’ 

‘Oh ho! so you are Lettice Til- 
ney, the wife of old Tilney! And 
what are you doing here in William 
Moore’s cabin, when your husband 
is lying murdered on the roadside V 
asked the sheriff, sneeringly. 

Letty burst into tears. 

‘ Indeed, I did not know about 
it. My husband beat me, and I ran 
away from him day before yester- 
day, and came here with John Cald- 
well.’ 

‘Umph! and where is John 
Caldwell V 

‘Inside here, sick,’ replied Letty. 

‘ Call off your dogs, then, and let 
us in. Shoot the brute’s mark 1’ 

Letty stepped out, and called to 
the dogs. She was too much fright- 
ened not to obey literally. Owing 
to her strange power over animals, 
the dogs obeyed and came to her, 
growling hoarsely. Letty put the 
chains on their necks ; as she did so, 
weeping hysterically. 

* Shut up, woman !’ said the 
sheriff, ‘ we don’t want you ; we 
want William Moore. This is his 
handkerchief we got off the bushes 
near where Tilney lay dead, and the 
dogs have tracked him straight here ; 
and we mean to have him. A poor 
old man shall never be murdered in 
broad daylight, in this county, and 
the murderer escape, if I can help 
it. Let us in !’ The sheriff got off 
his horse now, and pushed by Letty 
into the house. Finding John in 
bed, he questioned him closely about 
William Moore, and about his own 
wound. They had brought Tilney’s 
pistol with them. They had found 


80 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


two barrels of it discharged. It was 
a revolver. The rest were still 
loaded. The pistol had fallen be- 
neath the murdered man, and Moore 
had not moved him from off it as he 
turned Tilney over on his back, so 
he had left it lying under the body, 
and the sheriff had picked it up. 
The bullets were of a peculiar con- 
ical shape. One of the men who 
had discovered the body, and had 
notified the sheriff, knew Tilney’s 
bullet mould. He had shot with 
Tilney’s pistol in C — at a match 
there not long before. It was a pe- 
culiar pistol, of a very long range. 
Firearms were very valuable at that 
time in the Confederacy, and Til- 
ney had boasted of and shown off his 
pistol in C — to a good many peo- 
ple. The sheriff had found that a 
bullet from Tilney’s pistol had pene- 
trated the trunk of a maple tree near 
the road. He had seen no traces of 
the other bullet. He had examined 
the body of the murdered man, and 
discovered the wound in the shoul- 
der. ‘But that wouldn’t have killed 
him,’ said a physician along with 
the posse. ‘ His throat was cut.’ 

As the sheriff talked with John, 
seeking explanation of his and Let- 
ty’s being there, John told him 
frankly he had had a quarrel with 
Tilney about his wife, and had 
brought her off with him to Bill 
Moore’s. 

The sheriff said, 1 I’ll have to ar- 
rest you, Mr. Caldwell, though I 
have no particular cause of suspi- 
cion against you but your being 
here in Moore’s house and in com- 
pany with Tilney’s wife. I know 
Moore was about when that old man 
was killed, because that cut of the 
throat, the doctor says, was made 
with a bowie-knife, and a big one ; 
and we found on the bushes this 


handkerchief; it was dragged out of 
Moore’s pocket as he made off from 
the place, I have no doubt, for we 
showed the rag to these dogs of 
Beaver’s, and they followed the scent 
straight as a bee-line right hefe. It 
can’t be long since Moore left here.’ 
The sheriff got up off the bed where 
he had sat down while the other men 
had been searching inside and out 
of the shanty for traces of Moore, 
and walked to the back window. 

‘Halloo!’ cried he suddenly; 

‘ bring them dogs round here un- 
der this window. Here’s fresh 
foot-tracks !’ 

The men called the dogs, and 
showed them the trail. 

‘ Bring his own dogs !’ shouted 
the sheriff. 

‘ Let the woman bring them ! 
We daren’t go near them!’ shouted 
the men in reply. 

‘ Mrs. Tilney,’ said the sheriff, 

‘ you’ll have to aid the law. Go 
unloose the dogs, and fetch ’em 
here.’ 

Letty shrank back in horror. 

‘ Oh ! I can’t, indeed I can’t !’ she 
sobbed. 

‘ Madam, you must !’ and the 
sheriff took her by the arm, and 
forced her to the door. ‘Unloose 
the dogs!’ he said, sternly. Letty 
threw the chains loose without a 
word. The dogs whimpered around 
her, but snarled if anybody else 
came near. ‘ Lead ’em round un- 
der the window,’ said the sheriff. 

‘ Start ’em on the trail.’ 

Letty led the largest dog by his 
collar round the house to the back 
window. The dog put his nose 
down to the fresh footprints of his 
master, and uttered a long, piercing 
howl. 

‘AH right!’ said the sheriff; 

‘ take your hand off, and let him 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA T UR A . 


81 


start. The others will follow. Then 
go after the dogs, and bring back 
William Moore, dead or alive 1’ 

The dog started off from Letty’s 
hand like an arrow loosened from its 
tension on the bowstring. His 
companions joined in the cry, and 
the chase began. Beaver’s dogs 
followed hard after the others, and 
the men all went, except the sheriff, 
one other man, John, and Letty. 

They made John get up, put on 
his coat, using only one sleeve ; the 
other hung over the wounded arm. 
They were resolved to take him to 
the county jail. 

‘Oh, please let me go, too!’ 
pleaded Letty, weeping pitifully. 

‘No, I’ll send a man and a wo- 
man to look after you, because we 
may need you yet as a witness in 
this here transaction. You’ll stay 
here, as you are none too fit to ride, 
I can see,’ said the sheriff. 

So Letty was left alone, in spite of 
her entreaties — even getting down 
on her knees, imploring to be taken 
with John — but the sheriff was in- 
exorable. From the next house, 
about five miles off, he sent two ne- 
groes, a man and a woman, ordering 
them to stay and watch Letty Til- 
ney until he wanted her presence. 
So John was carried off to jail. 

They caught Moore the next day, 
having chased him down with his 
own dogs. The posse brought him 
back in triumph to C — . 

There was an immense excitement 
aroused by the murder of Tilney. 
‘An old man,’ the people said, ‘a 
stranger, and abandoned by his 
worthless young wife!’ for Judy’s 
tongue was clamorous. She told 
all she knew, and more than she 
knew. The public feeling was ex- 
asperated against John and Letty 
as violently as against Moore. 

6 


Though Judy’s testimony could not 
be admitted as evidence against a 
white man in court, it did its work 
outside. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

The trial came on that same 
week, as court happened to be in 
session. Judge Baylor, who pre- 
sided, was a quiet man of excellent 
judgment, a great free-mason, and a 
trustworthy citizen. Every one had 
confidence in his integrity and good 
common sense. John had a fair 
chance of justice before him, but 
circumstances were strong against 
both John and Moore. Innisford 
lived in the same county, and soon 
heard of the condition his unfor- 
tunate friend was in. He came 
immediately to C — to see what he 
could do in John’s behalf, because 
in spite of appearances he could 
not believe John Caldwell guilty 
of cold-blooded murder ; that he 
might have had a fight with Tilney 
and have killed him in the heat of 
passion, he judged very probable, 
knowing what he did of John’s 
feelings towards Letty. Innisford 
was not permitted to see John 
while the trial was pending. He 
came regularly to the court-house, 
however, and it added no little to 
John’s pain to see day after day the 
pale, haggard, anxious face of In- 
nisford among the crowd who press- 
ed into the court-room every morn- 
ing. It was a very interesting 
trial. John and Moore had good 
counsel provided, who did all they 
could to unravel the tangled skein 
of evidence, but it grew blacker 
and blacker for both of them. Judy 


82 


A SOUTHERN V1LLEGGIATURA . 


proved the illicit connection between 
John and Tilney’s wife, the quarrel 
and its results in John’s flight with 
Letty. Letty was brought under 
guard and forced to confess that 
John and Moore had quitted 
Moore’s shanty together on the 
morning of the murder. Her 
beauty and despair made a great 
impression on the jury. By the 
skilful questions of John’s counsel, 
both she and Judy were forced to 
give involuntary evidence of the 
wretched life she had led with Til- 
ney. The surgeon who had examin- 
ed John’s wound in prison pro- 
duced the bullet which had caused 
it, and which he had extracted. It 
was Tilney’s bullet ! That was 
clearly proved. The surgeon also 
testified that it was impossible for 
a man wounded as the prisoner 
evidently was, to have dismounted 
from his horse, to have walked fifty 
yards, dragged Tilney off his horse, 
and cut his throat. The shot in 
Tilney’s shoulder, he said, was not 
a mortal wound. John acknow- 
ledged coming across Tilney, and 
that they had exchanged pistol 
shots. He said he had fainted and 
saw no more. He refused to an- 
swer any more questions. He said 
he had no direct evidence as to who 
cut Tilney’s throat. He did not 
see it done — did not know when it 
was done. When he came to him- 
self Tilney was dead. He did not 
go near him. He never was nearer 
to him than the distance of a pistol 
shot. He acknowledged his love 
for Tilney’s wife, and that the 
tyranny with which her husband 
treated her had made him hate Til- 
ney, but he said he never would have 
killed the man in cold blood. He 
might have done it in the heat of 
passion. 


Moore contested that they could 
not prove the handkerchief found 
to have been his. It had no 
mark. It was a common ban- 
danna handkerchief that was plen- 
tiful in any of the stores. The 
dogs following him were not suffi- 
cient proof. They might have 
taken an accidental trail. He ac- 
knowledged starting out with John, 
but said he had dropped behind, 
and when he came up he found 
John lying insensible on the road- 
side and Tilney dead. He did not 
know who might have passed by 
and robbed Tilney, as he was prob- 
ably also insensible, and lying, 
wounded as John was. As for the 
cut having been made with a large 
hunting- knife — he had one, but 
plenty of other men had hunting 
knives as well as he. John Cald- 
well had no knife except an ordinary 
pocket knife, which the surgeon 
said could not have made the cut. 
The defence was very ingenious on 
the part of the prisoners, and 
though the popular feeling was 
deepened against Moore, the jury 
were divided, and on the judge’s 
summing up they brought in a ver-- 
dict of not guilty against Moore, and 
of manslaughter, at the furthest, 
against John. There was a roar of 
disapprobation from the crowd 
when the verdict was announced. 
The excitement was so intense that 
the judge ordered the prisoners to 
be taken back to jail and guarded 
against the fury of the populace. 
The men were reconducted to jail. 
Moore was in high spirits, laughing 
and joking with the sheriff and 
officers. John had to be carried, on 
account of his wound. He was 
quiet and sad. Innisford was per- 
mitted to visit him. He was ter- ' 
ribly agitated. He had just heard 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


83 


a rnmor that alarmed him greatly. 
He was told that one hundred men, 
armed to the teeth — desperate men 
— were lying in wait in the forest 
beyond G — . In case the court 
decided in favor of the prisoners, 
they meant to take the law into 
their own hands and lynch the pri- 
soners. They were led by one 
Hughes, a nephew of Tilney’s. In- 
nisford knew what Texas Regu- 
lators were, and he went to the 
sheriff and told him of the rumor. 
The sheriff said he would double 
or treble the guards, and do all he 
could to protect the prisoners. In- 
nisford told John what he had 
heard. John turned pale. 

‘Innisford,’ he said, ‘you have 
been true and good to me. You 
would have saved me if you could 
have done it, I know, but it was 
my fate to love Letty ! I love her 
still, but it may be I shall not get 
out of this alive ! I swear to you I 
did not kill Tilney. I shot him, but 
I did not cut his throat. He shot 
me twice. What I said at the court 
is. true, so God have mercy on my 
miserable soul ! But I don’t be- 
lieve I will escape. I have the pre- 
sentiment I shall not. Promise me 
one thing 1 If they will hang me, 
as they will if they take me, don’t 
let me die a dog’s death. If you 
can— before the rope is swung up- 
give me a drop of quick poison ! 
Will you ? It is my last wish !’ 

Innisford refused, but John plead- 
ed, and before Innisford quitted him 
he had promised to do what John 
asked in extremis. 

The night passed quietly. The 
judge wrote out an order for 
Moore’s release and for John’s com- 
mitment to the penitentiary for five 
years that night, and sent it to the 
sheriff. The next morning at day- 


break the sheriff went to the jail, 
where he had had a double guard 
kept all night, to fulfil his orders, 
but he found the jail surrounded by 
a hundred armed men, and his 
guards prisoners. He was seized 
himself, and, in spite of his protests, 
was locked up in one of his own 
cells. . 

‘ Don’t make a fuss, sheriff,’ said 
the leader Hughes. ‘ We don’t 
want to hurt you, and we don’t 
mean to have any night work, or to 
do this thing in a corner. We 
mean to keep order in this county, 
and not have men killed every day 
on the high road. Those two men 
murdered my uncle, no matter 
what the court says, and they shall 
swing for it this very day 1’ 

After disposing of the sheriff and 
his men, the lynch gang waited 
quietly around the jail until ten 
o’clock, until the citizens all came 
from their breakfasts and life was 
stirring all through the little town. 
The jail and court-house occupied 
a square of open ground right in 
the centre of the town, and there 
were some tall trees planted around 
the square to shade it. There was 
soon an immense concourse of peo- 
ple in the square and about the jail. 
Innisford ran to the square, mount- 
ed a horse-block, and made a vehe- 
ment appeal to the crowd to help 
him to protect the helpless prisoners, 
and to keep up the majesty of the 
civil law. But his eloquent, impas- 
sioned pleadings were in vain. He 
might as well have spoken to the 
wind as to the stolid crowd who lis- 
tened to him. Their sympathies 
were all with Hughes and Tilney. 
Soon the hundred men formed them- 
selves into an orderly body. No 
one moved to stay them, nor to 
speak to them, except Innisford. 


84 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIATURA. 


‘He sprang down from the block, 
and hid his face in his hands, shud- 
dering as heavy blows were heard 
proceeding from the jail, and a cry 
as of a chained wild beast broke 
wildly from William Moore’s lips, as 
the huge oaken door of the cell was 
stove in, and the resolute men seiz- 
ed hold of John and of his compan- 
ion. John said not a word, uttered 
no cry; except when the man took 
him roughly by his lame arm, he 
winced. ‘ Take the other arm,’ he 
said; ‘that is wounded!’ The 
man let go the wounded arm and 
seized the other. John walked 
feebly between them. They put 
Moore and John on horses, tying 
their feet below the horses’ bellies, 
and then formed the sad procession. 
They marched solemnly, without 
word or outcry, around the square, 
the crowd looking on. Some faint- 
hearted men turned away, sickened 
at the sight. Moore cried, strug- 
gled, cursed, blasphemed, begged, 
entreated abjectly for mercy. Not a 
word was answered. Silently they 
were marched to their doom. 
John’s face was pale and his lips 
were set hard, but he said nothing. 
The horses upon which they w r ere 
tied were led each under a tree with 
outspreading limbs, upon which two 
ropes had been noosed. The gib- 
bets were ready for the victims. 
Hughes came forward : ‘ If there 
is a preacher in the crowd, let him 
come forward and say a prayer for 
these men.’ 

There was no preacher, but In- 
nisford stepped out. 

‘For God’s sake!’ he said, ‘let 
me speak to Caldwell ! He is my 
friend !’ 

Hughes made way. 

‘ Speak !’ he said, * but don’t 
speak long. We have no time to 


spare, for the military will be here 
in two hours, and our work must be 
done.’ 

Innisford put his arms around 
John, as he sat bound on the horse. 

‘John,’ he said, as the tears 
streamed down his face, ‘John, is 
there anything I can do now for you V 

‘ Do what you promised. You 
have done all you could. Take care 
of poor Letty, if you can, for my 
sake. Kiss me, and good-bye. I 
deserve to die. I broke God’s laws, 
but I did not kill Tilney. Kiss me, 
and give me that.’ 

John bent his head down. In- 
nisford kissed him. John opened 
his lips. Innisford’s hand went 
towards his mouth. It was only 
a gesture of farewell, the people 
thought. ‘ God help you, John, 
and forgive me !’ said Innisford. 

He stepped back. Hughes re- 
sumed his hold on the bridle, took 
the noose, as it swung loose, and put 
it over John’s head. John swayed 
in his seat and sank forward heavily 
on to his horse’s neck. 

‘ He has swooned,’ said the 
crowd. 

Hughes gave the signal. At one 
instant both Moore and John were 
hoisted in the air, and the horses were 
led from under them. Moore strug- 
gled convulsively. John fell heavy 
and straight, without the movement 
of a muscle, and hung a dead weight. 

‘ He died easy, any how,’ said 
the crowd, beginning to disperse. 

‘ The other fellow had a hard time.’ 

Innisford succeeded in getting the 
bodies after they had hung an hour. 
They were cut down and given to 
him. Hughes flung the keys of the 
jail on the ground, saying, 

‘You had better let the sheriff 
out,’ and galloped off. 

The military came, but too late 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG G1ATURA. 


for any use. Hughes was gone, and 
no one could or would identify any 
man of the Regulators. 

The next day Innisford started to 
find Letty, according to his promise 
to John. After the trial she had 
been sent back to Moore’s shanty. 
Innisford found the negro man and 
woman there, but they told him that 
in the night after the men had been 
hung, Hughes and six others had 
ridden up to the shanty and told 
Letty, sternly, -what they had just 
done, and they ordered her to leave 
the county and the State imme- 
diately, unless she wished to share 
the same fate. 

The woman said, ‘ Letty was 
very scared; that she had gotten 
right, up out of bed, and put on her 
clothes, her sun-bonnet and shawl, 
in a sort of a dogged way, saying, 

‘Yes! John said I was to go 
to Madame Rosalthe. I will go.’ 

She got on her horse, taking a 
small bundle and some bread and 
meat with her, and she had gone off 
in the night, they did not know 
where to. Innisford started off in 
search of her. He travelled every 
road to the Texas line, and could 
find no trace of her. So he had to 
give up the search after spending 
two weeks in it. He went home, and 
was very ill for several weeks from 
fatigue and grief. His wife told me 
that in his delirium he raved con- 
tinually of John, and he said, 

‘ It is prussic acid, in a globule, 

I tell you ! It is the quickest way 
to die. Don’t hang him 1 Have 
you no souls, men ? The Lord for- 
give. us all !’ 

She never could make any sense 
out of his ravings, but from what I 
heard from him and others after- 
wards, I did. I was told by the 
surgeon who saw the bodies after 


they were hung, that John’s face 
was perfectly calm and white, not 
surcharged with blood, as is usual 
in suffocation, and that there was a 
strange smellof burnt almonds about 
him. 

‘ I think,’ he said, * he had taken 
prussic acid, and died instantane- 
ously. He did not suffer much.’ 


CHAPTER XIX. 

As soon as Innisford was able to 
do it, he came to see me. I was 
living very quietly about fifty miles off 
from C — ; was very much absorbed 
in the care of my husband, whose 
health was fast failing. I saw no 
one but the physician in attendance, 
and read no papers except the Hous- 
ton Telegraph. It was in that I 
saw, about three weeks after Letty’s 
flight, a meagre account of the trial 
and its succeeding incidents. I was 
anxious to hear more about it, es- 
pecially on account of Letty, and 
had just dispatched a servant on 
horseback to take a letter to Innis- 
ford from me, when he rode up to 
my door. He was looking wretch- 
ed, and was much overcome by 
his feelings when narrating the 
melancholy story to me. He had 
been in hopes that Letty had come 
to me, but she had not been seen 
by any one. I put advertisements 
describing her, and offering re- 
wards for any information given con- 
cerning her, in all the local news- 
papers ; but we never got any news 
of her. My husband died. The 
war was ended by Lee’s surrender. 
We refugees returned to our deso- 
lated homes. I arrived at the house 
of a friend who had preceded me, 


86 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


about three miles from my river 
plantation. It was in August. The 
whole country had been lying fallow, 
without fences or habitations, since 
the beginning of the war. The 
houses had all been burnt during 
the march of Grant’s army on Vicks- 
burg. My own, I knew, was burnt, 
but I had a desire to look upon its 
ruins. I had spent many happy 
hours there during my brief married 
life. I borrowed a saddle-horse 
from my friend, for there were no 
longer any carriage roads or bridges 
left in the country. A servalit man 
accompanied me. When I reached 
the spot where my gate formerly 
stood, I told the man to ride on and 
see if any of the negro quarters were 
standing, for I wished to be alone 
when I first surveyed the ruins of 
my home. I had left some of my 
most trustworthy slaves on the plan- 
tation, and I hoped some of them 
might still be living. Among them 
was Dorcas, the plantation sick 
nurse, a most excellent, kindly mu- 
latto woman, in whom I had always 
reposed much confidence. The 
-weeds and bushes were grown up 
higher than my head on horseback, 
so that I made my way through 
them with considerable difficulty, 
until I reached the spot cumbered 
with the debris of my once spacious 
home. I had been quite brave up 
to that moment, but at the sight of 
the crumbling ruins laid in piles of 
ashes, bits of brick and white mar- 
ble scattered all around me, my 
strength gave way. I put my hands 
up to my face and wept bitterly. I 
had wept myself calmer, and was 
lifting up my head to look about me 
further, when I heard a rustling 
among the weeds which covered 
what was once my flower-garden, 
and soon the tall bushes parted near 


me, and Dorcas emerged from them. 
She had a small bundle in her arms. 
When she got close to me, I saw it 
was an infant that she held, a white 
child six months old. Dorcas was 
overjoyed to see me, and told a 
history of her trials and hardships 
during the war. Then she picked 
up the child, which she had laid 
down under the shade of a tree near 
by, and said, 

‘ Mistress, you’ll have to take 
this poor baby. Its mother done 
dead, and I’ve done all I could for 
it till now.’ 

‘ Whose child is it, Dorcas V 

1 Miss Tilney’s.’ 

Then Dorcas told me all she 
knew. It seemed that Letty, fright- 
ened nearly out of her senses by 
Hughes’s threats, and almost insane 
with grief, had fled to Louisiana, 
thinking she would find me there 
where I had lived. She did not 
know of my removal to Texas. She 
had travelled only by night, letting 
her horse feed in sequestered spots 
during the day. She had slept her- 
self during daylight, occasionally 
venturing out of her secret paths to 
buy some bread for herself and food 
Tor her horse. She never approached 
a white person, but she got food and 
assistance from the negroes, who 
would even let her warm herself at 
the cabin fires. So she had fled for 
two months, until one cold, wet 
night, Dorcas said, she heard a faint 
knock at her cabin door, where was 
the only light visible in the deserted 
quarter, and, on opening it, she 
found a woman standing before it, 
holding a horse’s bridle. Both horse 
and woman looked worn out and 
exhausted by long travel. It was 
Letty. She asked after me. Dor- 
cas told her I had gone away to 
Texas. Then Letty threw her hands 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


87 


lip, and screamed and wept. Dor- 
cas said her brain was clearly dis- 
turbed. She could not make out 
exactly what she wanted, but she 
rrtade her come in, sent her old hus- 
band out to take care of the horse, 
then she busied herself with Letty. 
As soon as the light fell full on her 
face, Dorcas recognized her as Mrs. 
Tiluey, whom she had seen visiting 
me. Letty sat now on a stool be- 
fore the fire, apparently stupid from 
fatigue and pain. Dorcas saw that 
she was very wet and cold. It had 
been raining nearly all day, Dor- 
cas stripped off Letty’s wet clothes, 
and put some of her own coarse, dry 
clothes on her. She rubbed her feet 
and her hands, and made her get 
into her bed, and covered her with 
blankets. Letty was in a shaking 
chill. She had submitted without a 
word to all that Dorcas said and did 
for her. 

‘ Lord I mistress,’ said the faith- 
ful woman, ‘ it was the pitifullest 
sight to see her ! She warn’t nothin’ 
but skin and bone — and in her con- 
dition, too 1 Her baby was born 
before mornin’. I worked on her as 
well as I knowed how, poor cree- 
tur I and with sage tea and bread I 
managed to keep her alive. She 
didn’t notice her child at all, at 
first; but when I put it in her arms 
and it cried, she giv a leetle screech, 
an’ hugged it up, and cried over it. 
Then she begun to get better. She 
was a mighty strong constitution of 
a woman, for she had rid all the way 
from Texas on horseback, an’ that 
would ’a killed most women dead. 
I had managed to pick up a cow out 
of the woods — one o’ yourn — an’ I 
had kept her hid. My ole man 
made me a little bit o’ cow-pen in 
the woods, over on the mound, an’ 
I used to go over an’ milk her there 


every day, so I had milk for the 
child an’ the mother/ 

To make Dorcas’s long story 
short, Letty had recovered her 
strength so as to walk around, and 
seemed to be quite happy nursing 
her babe, which was never out of 
her arms, ‘ but her mind was never 
exactly, right about other things.’ 
Dorcas said she would sit for hours 
with her eyes fixed, her arms me- 
chanically clasping her child, and 
never move her eyes from the floor, 
or from the ground, if she happened 
to be out of doors. She seemed to 
have no recollection of anything that 
happened in Texas. If Dorcas 
asked about her husband, she would 
shake her head and frown, and say, 
‘Judy ’ll hear you !’ If Dorcas 
mentioned me, she would say, ‘Yes, 
I am to go to Madame Rosalthe. 
He said it.’ 

If Dorcas asked ‘who he was that 
said it,’ she would blush and laugh, 
and play with her baby’s fingers. 
Dorcas asked her what was the 
baby’s name. 

She looked up quickly, and said 
almost angrily, 

‘You know it is Jean — mon petit 
Jean .’ Dorcas did not know this 
was French for John, so she called 
the child Jan. 

The child was delicate, and they 
had trouble with it. It would some- 
times have convulsions, and Dorcas 
told me its back was rather crooked. 
The hardships its mother endured 
had told upon the child. 

Letty was fond of taking her babe 
and walking out into the woods 
about the plantation, and Dorcas let 
her go, always keeping a watch over 
her to see she did not wander away 
too far. These poor old negroes 
were very good to Letty, no one 
ever came to disturb them, and they 


88 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


all lived on together quietly. Dor- 
cas had fitted up, in a poor way, a 
room in one of the cabins for Letty, 
and she seemed quite satisfied. She 
said, ‘ Madame Rosalthe would soon 
come home, and she would wait for 
her here.’ 

Time passed on. It was just three 
weeks before my return that Letty 
took her child and went out to walk 
as usual, one fine morning. She did 
not come back at noon to dinner, so 
Dorcas started out to look for her. 
She called to her loudly, ‘ Miss 
Letty ! Miss Letty !’ but no re- 
sponse came. Sometimes Letty 
would imitate her, and reply sport- 
ively to her, ‘Aunt Darkey 1 Aunt 
Darkey !’ but this morning there 
was no answer to Dorcas’s cry. Dor- 
cas went on searching by the former 
old road. Seeiug footprints like 
Letty’s, she followed them. They 
led her through the wood, down the 
road to the Water Hole. The child 
lay wrapped in Letty’s shawl, at 
‘the foot of a tree about one hundred 
yards from the pool, and on the pool 
Dorcas saw floating, face downward, 
as the bodies of drowned women 
always do float, poor Letty. Dor- 
cas went to the edge of the pool, 
and managed to catch a portion of 
her frock-skirt with a hooked stick, 
then by main force she dragged the 
body to the shore, and hauled it out 
of the water. Letty was dead. 
Whether she had fallen in acciden- 
tally — her foot had perhaps slipped, 
as she stooped to drink — God only 
knows. Dorcas carried the child 
home, and she and her old husband 
dug a grave and buried Letty near 
the pool. They had not strength to 
bear her away from it. 

‘ Else, mistress, I’d a buried the 
poor thing decenter, in your own 
flower-garden,’ said Dorcas. 


This was the story Dorcas told 
me. I received the orphan child in 
my arms, and bore it back with me 
to my friends. In a few days, after 
seeing about making provision for 
Dorcas and her husband, and re- 
warding their fidelity and humanity, 
I took the packet to New Orleans, 
and from thence to my maisonnette , 
taking the child with me. The in- 
fant had a very lovely face, but it 
was deformed — it had curvature of 
the spine. It is un petit bossu, 
but very intelligent and winning. I 
gave it to a very dear friend of 
mine, who devotes her life to the 
care of orphan foundlings. I had 
given her a house near mine, on the 
Vermilion Bay, for the use of her- 
self and her orphans. She lives 
there yet, with four other ladies who 
assist her. I changed the name of 
the little child, not wishing to have 
any painful remarks made in its 
hearing by our Acadians. Every- 
body in la petite Cadie knows the 
Mother Blanche and her little flock, 
and le petit bossu is a universal 
favorite, and comes in for a double 
share of friendly gifts and courtesies. 
When I am at my maisonnette , in 
summer, I spend many of my hours 
with Blanche and her children.” 


“ Is it Blanche Benit you speak 
of ?” asked Emma, who was visibly 
weepiug over the latter portion of 
Madame Dulany’s tale. 

“ Yes. Blanche Benit, la mere 
Blanche,” replied Mrs. Dulany. 
“ She is a widow, still young, and 
very lovely, but she has withdrawn 
entirely from the world, and given 
herself up to this work of charity.” 

“ What a Protestant she is !” said 
Arthur. 

u Yes ! a Protestant, but I have 
no prejudices,” said Mrs. Dulany. 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 



89 


Athalie had not spoken, had 
scarcely moved during the partial 
reading and partial narration of 
Mrs. Dulany. She sat looking in- 
to the fire, her hands clasped in 
her lap, lost in thought. Col. Yon 
Lingard was quiet, too, and so was 
Benny. 

Arthur roused himself, with an af- 
fected laugh. 

“ Bless me, Rosalthe ! yon have 
given us all the blues with that tra- 
gic tale. Phew ! Let us go to the 
dining-room and have a hot punch 
and some oysters, and get put into 
better spirits I” 

Emma sprang up, and Mrs. Du- 
lany, smiling, put back her manu- 
script, and led the w*ay into the din- 
ing-room. All the others followed, 
except Athalie, who said she had a 
slight headache, and would beg 
leave to retire. Col. Yon Lingard 
looked at Athalie as she quitted the 
studio, but he did not speak to her. 
He followed Arthur and Benny, who 
were talking and laughing as they 
descended the staircase to the din- 
ing-room. 

“Rosalthe, don’t you think the 
blessed Blanche a little crazy yet ?” 
asked Arthur, stirring his punch. 

“ Good heavens, Arthur, how you 
talk 1” exclaimed Emma. 

“ Ah well ! I know she is a saint, 
and all that. But I saw her last 
summer in her snowy white gowns 
and all those dreadful little children 
about her, and I regarded her as 
still a little cracked,” said Arthur, 
mischievously. 

Mrs. Dulany laughed. Arthur 
was a privileged person, and said 
what he pleased to her. 

“ Mrs. Dulany,” said Benny, se- 
riously, pouring out a wineglassful 
of steaming punch from his little 
tankard, “do you know I really do 


believe in one constant, enduring, 
even if hopeless love.” 

“So do I!” observed Yon Lin- 
gard, sipping his hot punch with a 
teaspoon. 

Rosalthe looked at the two men 
steadily, and answered thoughtful- 
ly, “ I like the teaching of the Swe- 
denborgjans on this subject. They 
say that the soul must be educated 
in this life for the perennial ‘ con- 
jugi-aV love of the next; that the 
love for one must be carefully en- 
couraged and developed. I have 
the same dislike to the dissipation 
of emotion and the depravity of 
imagination inevitably produced by 
inconstant and ephemeral loves, 
that I have for bodily impurity and 
debauchery. Coquetry and love of 
change are destructive of all the 
higher and finer sensations of the 
soul and affections. And inasmuch 
as mental corruption is worse than 
physical, so do I hate frivolity and 
inconstancy. And it is better to love 
one unhappily than to love many* 
successfully, or not to love at all.” 

“ Don’t you think the Germans 
teach a very low and unworthy idea 
of love in their books ?” asked Em- 
ma. “ They make their heroes and 
heroines experience a half dozen 
passions for different people, and 
then wirtd up with a very homely 
marriage and a picture of ‘ Dutch 
still-life.’ ” 

“ They are true to love, as Goethe 
said of himself, but not to love’s ob- 
ject,” said Arthur. 


CHAPTER XX. 

The maid had fixed the night- 
lamp which always burned in Mrs. 
Dulany’s dressing-room, and had 


90 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


bidden her mistress good-night. 
Mrs. Dulanv lay in a semi-conscious 
state, between sleeping and waking. 
She had been powerfully moved her- 
self in narrating the story she had 
told that evening to her guests. 
Memories had been stirred painfully 
in her soul, and she was trying 
to calm herself before sinking into 
slumber. It was late, almost two 
o’clock. She had heard the clock 
strike hour by hour, in her half- 
trance, when there came a knock at 
her door. 

“ Rosalthe 1 Mrs. Dulany 1” 

It was Athalie’s voice. Mrs. 
Dulany arose and unlocked her door. 
Atbalie entered, carrying her night 
lamp in her hand. She was in her 
night-dress, her bare feet thrust into 
her soft chamber slippers. She had 
thrown a dressing-gown of bright 
flannel over her white nightgown. 
Her magnificent hair streamed over 
her shoulders down to her knees. 
Her face was flushed and her eyes 
'swollen with weeping. Mrs. Du- 
lany told her to come in, and she 
re-fastened the door. Athalie set 
her lamp down on the table, and, 
clasping her hands together, said, 
with quivering lips, 

“Rosalthe, you told that story 
to-night with a purpose ; I under- 
stand ; but I am in that condition of 
mind when one has lost the power 
to will — and you must save me, save 
me from myself, from my own heart, 
Rosalthe 1” 

Athalie put up her hands and 
wept bitterly. Mrs. Dulany was an 
artist as well as a woman, and she 
could not help thinking, “What a 
study for a Magdalen 1” But she 
was a tender woman, too, so she 
simply took hold of Athalie’s hands, 
and drew her towards her. 

“How cold you are, Athalie!” 


she said ; “you are in a nervous chill. 
Come, get into my bed with me, 
and let me cover you up warmly, and 
give you a few drops of camphor 
water. Then I’ll talk to you.” 

She drew off the flannel gown 
from Athalie, and took off the slip- 
pers from her white feet, and made 
her get into the bed. Then she got 
some camphor drops for her, stirred 
up the fire, and warming the flan- 
nel gown, she wrapped it around 
her cold feet, just as if she was com- 
forting a child. Athalie’s convul- 
sive sijrhs grew slower and rarer. 
Then Mrs. Dulany got into the bed 
herself, and put her arms around 
Athalie. Athalie buried her face 
in Mrs. Dulany’s warm bosom. 

“Oh, Rosalthe! Rosalthe !” was 
all she could say. 

“ Athalie,” replied Mrs. Dulany, 
“ I know what you are suffering, 
and what you want. Listen to me. 
You must go away from here while” 
— she hesitated, then said, “ You 
must go for awhile until you are 
stronger. You belong to me for 
another month, you know. By that 
time your husband will be returned, 
and you must go home.” Athalie 
shuddered in Mrs. Dulany’s arms. 
Mrs. Dulany continued firmly: 
“ There are times in the lives of 
all of us weak mortals when others, 
calmer and more cool, can judge 
what is best and right for us to do. 
You are safe with me, Athalie. 
You know that. Uncle’s steamboat 
is in order now. He is to make a 
trial trip with her to-morrow, pre- 
paratory to the grand hunt. I shall 
direct him to run into the Red 
River and down the Atchafalaya. 
You will go with him — Benny shall 
go, too. You and Benny will take 
the boat across to Vermilion Bay, 
and Benny will accompany you to 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


91 


my maisonnette on Vermilion Bay. 
You must go there to Blanche Be- 
nit. It will do you a great deal of 
good. I have some old servants at 
the maisonnette , and old Henriette, 
my Acadian housekeeper, lives in 
one wing of the house. She is a 
devotee to her religion, and quiet 
as a mouse. She will give you 
protection, but not companionship, 
which is what you will wish. There 
are plenty of books there, but you 
will find your chief medicine in the 
society of Blanche Benit, and her 
little suffering orphans. She lives 
not more than a mile from the 
maisonnette. You know her story. 
A young widow with a handsome 
fortune, who has devoted herself to 
the care of sick children, incurable 
foundlings, who could not have 
such tender attention in the asy- 
lums of the cities. Blanche is the 
most perfect character I have ever 
known among women. It strengthens 
me to be with her. I have often 
thought, Athalie, that there was 
something in the idea of the Swe- 
denborgians about the emanations 
and atmosphere of certain people ; 
nothing impure or unrighteous can 
exist in the atmosphere which sur- 
rounds Blanche Benit, and yet she 
is the incarnation of tenderness and 
loving kindness. I shall only write 
recommending you to her love and 
care. You need tell her nothing of 
your peculiar trial. It is not neces- 
sary. Confidences on such points 
often only weaken. You will derive 
good from her and strength from her 
every hour that you pass with her. 
Such nobleness as hers does its min- 
istering silently, but most surely. It 
is thus that women can help each 
other towards right. Will you go, 
Athalie ?” 

“ Yes, I will go.” 


Mrs. Dulany continued, “Benny 
will leave you and return here. It 
is better you should be alone. ‘ The 
sick soul must medicine itself.’ You 
will find health in the salt breezes, 
and meditation will grow calm 
and sweet in the presence of the 
vast sea. You will see something 
of my simple-hearted people, too. 
There is a pony carriage, if you 
should wish to drive. Your maid 
can pack your things to-morrow 
morning. The boat will leave at 
noon. You can have a headache 
until you set off quietly. I will 
make your adieux properly. It is 
best to avoid partings.” 

Athalie was silent. Her heart 
rebelled, but her reason said Mrs. 
Dulany was right. 

u I will do as you say,” she said, 
tremulously. “ But, Rosalthe, you 
will write me. I should like to 
know” — she hesitated — “ I should 
like to know how all are here.” 

“ I will write you regularly, Atha- 
lie, and tell you everything,” said* 
Mrs. Dulany. She was too wise 
“ to seek to quench the fire of love 
with words.” She knew “ the more 
thou dammest up, the more it 
burns.” Her morality was high 
and pure, but it was not fierce nor 
pharisaic. 

The plan was carried out more 
easily, because Col. Von Lingard, 
after a restless night, had slight 
fever from his wound, and sent an 
apology for not appearing at the 
breakfast table. Mrs. Dulany said 
to the rest of her guests that Athalie 
had a fancy to visit another friend, 
and would go off on the Louis d’Or 
with Mr. Foster and Benny that 
morning. Miss Clemmy was still 
suffering from her tooth, and did 
not notice anything much outside 
of her own ego. Benny came into 


92 


A SOUTHERN VILLEG GIATURA. 


her room, where she was sitting 
with her face swathed in flannels, 
and told her he was going off with 
Mr. Foster, but would return to take 
her back to the city. She was satis- 
fied for him to go. Emma was loud 
in her regrets at Athalie’s depart- 
ure, but her own visit was nearly 
over to Mrs. Dulany, so she kissed 
Athalie au revoir with more equa- 
nimity than she could otherwise 
have done. Arthur complained 
more than any one. “ Why couldn’t 
Athalie stay as long as they did ?” 
Athalie laughed and wept a little 
as she made her hasty adieux, and 
with a parting glance at the cur- 
tained window of Col. Yon Lin- 
gard’s apartment, where he lay, 
unconscious of what was passing, 
she went on board the Louis d’Or. 
Mr. Foster gave the order, the 
steam whistle blew — and Athalie 
was gone. 

When Col. Yon Lingard came 
out to dinner that evening, Mrs. 
Dulany gracefully made Athalie’s 
adieux to him, and her regrets at 
not being able to express them in 
person. 

It is a good thing that the best 
of women can be rather hypocritical 
in emergencies. When a woman of 
the world chooses to be calm and 
to conceal emotion, it is difficult to 
throw off her mask by any contre- 
temps. Few men have the power 
of apparent indifference that most 
women can assume at will. Col. 
Yon Lingard was startled. His 
face crimsoned, but Mrs. Dulany 
was perfectly cool and unembar- 
rassed. He asked where Mrs. Des- 
londes had gone. 

“ To visit a friend below,” said 
Mrs. Dulany, and changed the con- 
versation so dextrously that Yon 


Lingard did not know how to in- 
troduce the subject again. 

He asked Emma, in the course of 
the evening, the same question. 

“Athalie? She is gone to see a 
friend, Blanche Benit,” said Emma, 
carelessly. 

“And where does Blanche Benit 
live ?” persisted the colonel. 

“She lives on Yermilion Bay, 
but she never receives visitors ex- 
cept those sent her by Rosalthe,”said 
Emma, meaningly. “Blanche has 
a children’s asylum down there.” 

The colonel asked no more ques- 
tions. He was very unhappy over 
Athalie’s sudden disappearance, but 
he felt that he was helpless. He 
could not intrude upon Blanche Be- 
nit or upon Athalie either. He did 
not exactly know what he would do. 

“ Does Mr. Dandridge go, too ?” 
he asked. 

“ No 1 Benny comes back imme- 
diately to the city, I believe.” 

“ Is there no town nor any inns 
near there,” inquired the colonel, 
“ where this blessed Blanche lives, 
if anybody should wish to see 
her ?” 

Emma laughed mischievously. 
She could not help it. Then her 
face grew grave. 

“No, Col. Yon Lingard; there 
is no village very near. The Asy- 
lum is on Rosalthe’s estate, and is 
far off from any thoroughfare. I 
would not advise any one to venture 
there without an invitation from 
Rosalthe. It would probably of- 
fend her greatly.” 

Col. Yon Lingard said nothing 
more. He felt there was something 
he could not understand in this sud- 
den movement of Athalie’s, but he 
was only a man in the meshes of a net 
woven by very intelligent women, 


A SOUTHERN V1LLE G GIA TURA. 


93 


and he felt himself fettered in oil 
every side. 


CHAPTER XXL 

Athalie arrived at the maisonnette 
late in the evening. There was no 
sound of life about the low, wide- 
spreading house, built in French 
style, with wide verandas and broad 
eaves running all around it. There 
was a hall in the centre of the 
house, and rooms branched off from 
it on both sides and from the back 
of it, making a one-storied, or half- 
cross building. The rooms were 
large, but the ceilings were low, and 
the front was painted a dusky red 
on the outside. Inside it was gayly 
frescoed, every room being different. 
Mrs. Dulany had remodelled the 
interior according to modern ideas 
of convenience and comfort. There 
was no lack of graceful draperies 
and delicate hangings. But tbe 
furniture was old and carefully pre- 
served. Spider-legged tables and 
straight, stiff chairs abounded, but 
there were light, soft sofas and 
lounges and easy chairs also inter- 
spersed among the antique furniture, 
which seemed in quaint keeping 
with the simplicity of the whole es- 
tablishment. Each room had a gay 
French clock on the mantel shelf, 
and one of the long, gilded, com- 
partment mirrors that were used 
in French houses a hundred years 
ago. The chandeliers which hung 
with cut glass pendants from the 
ceilings were intended for wax 
candles, and bougies were in all the 
branches attached to the walls. It 


was as old-fashioned and sweet as 
possible everywhere. 

Benny kissed Athalie and told 
her good-bye. He had to hasten 
back in the hired hack to catch the 
train that night, after seeing her 
safe into the salon of the maison- 
nette. 

“ M’lle Henrietta will take care 
of you,” he said. 

M’lle Henrietta came forward, 
courtseying profoundly, to receive 
Madame’s guest. The old woman 
was rather agitated at this irruption 
on her privacy, but Benny tossed 
her a letter from Madame out of 
his pocket, as he hastily shook hands 
and ran back to the carriage. 

“ Not a minute to lose, Pierre,” 
he said to the coachman. “ The 
train passes in an hour, you know.” 

M’lle Henrietta picked up the 
letter and read it. Then she slowly 
turned round and walked into the 
parlor, where Athalie had thrown 
herself into a fauteuil. 

“ Will Madame Deslondes go at 
once to her apartment, or will she 
have tea immediately ?” demanded 
the housekeeper. 

Athalie looked up at the little, 
old figure which stood reverently 
before her. It was a queer little 
body, very small in stature, scarcely 
larger than a child of ten years of 
age, dressed in black serge gown, 
with white apron and coif, a sort of 
secular nun’s dress. A rosary hung 
from her side, and a bunch of keys 
on a steel chain depended from her 
girdle. She held a piece of knitting 
in her hands. The ball of yarn, white 
and soft, showed from her apron 
pocket. She had a kindly, withered 
little thin face, with tiny black eyes, 
like a squirrel’s, so bright and round 
were they. 

“ Ah, M’lle Henrietta,” said 


94 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIATURA. 


Athalie, extending her hand, “I am 
glad to know you. Rosalthesaid you 
would take care of me for awhile.” 

“ Certainement /” replied the lit- 
tle woman, “if Madame will gra- 
ciously permit.” 

“Oh, I shall be only very glad,” 
said Athalie, with a sigh. “ I think 
I should like to have a fire and a 
cup of tea in my room, if you will be 
so good.” 

11 Dans un instant /” and the 
housekeeper trotted off on her wee 
feet in a quick, quiet little way, that 
instinctively suggested the resem- 
blance to the mouse that Mrs. Du- 
lany had called her, in speaking of 
her. 

It was not very long before 
Athalie was inducted into her charm- 
ing, old-fashioned apartment, with 
its dressing-room, whose windows 
opened right out on the view of the 
Bay of Vermilion. Athalie heard 
the roaring and dashing of the surf 
on the beach at the foot of the high 
hill upon which the maisonnette was 
built. The sound of the waters and 
the murmuring of wind and wave 
were soothing to Athalie. There 
was a strong, pure feeling in the 
salt atmosphere. She breathed long, 
leaning at her window, looking out 
on the illimitable sea. She seemed 
to inhale fresh and different life. In 
a half hour, M’lle Henrietta re- 
turned to Athalie, bearing a small 
salver of tea and hot buttered toast 
and delicately fried oysters, and a sil- 
ver dish of little gateaux , and candied 
fruits in a glass saucer. She apolo- 
gized for the fare, as she said, 

“ Remain, they would hope to 
present Madame something more 
dainty, but that was what she had 
to offer her to-night.” 

“ M’lle Henrietta,” said Athalie, 
while she was eating her solitary sup- 


per,” how shall I get this letter from 
Mrs. Dulany to Blanche B4nit ?” 

“ Ah ! that is bien facile — very 
easy. Madame Benit lives near 
here, not a half mile. Tiens ! You 
can the Dove’s Nest see by with- 
drawing your curtain, Madame !” 

“The Dove’s Nest! is that what 
you call her place?” asked Athalie, 
with some curiosity. 

4 ‘ Oui — certainement, un joli nid 
d’oiseaux. It is a fine nest of 
little fledglings ! But Madame will 
see for herself. She doubtless in- 
tends to visit Madame Benit ?” 

“ Yes. I think I’ll go to-mor- 
row,” replied Athalie. “ Rosalthe 
made such a point of it,” she said 
to herself in a low voice. “ Can 
you send the letter early to-morrow, 
so as to announce my coming?” 

“ Ah, yes ! there will be no de- 
lay. Madame, be content. The let- 
ter shall go before Madame awakes. 
And the reply shall be here.” 

Athalie gave Rosalthe’s letter to 
M’lle Henrietta, and then finished 
her supper. 

Athalie was weary, and the tea was 
very appetizing in the tiny Sevrescup, 
and the toast really was delicious. 
She ate heartily, and praised every- 
thing offered her, to the unfeigned 
delight of M’lle Henrietta, whose lit- 
tle black eyes glistened, and a queer 
little smile broke over her thin lips. 
But she was very quiet and shy, 
“ a real mouse incarnated,” said 
Athalie, with a smile., Athalie said 
she would like her maid to come 
to her early, as she felt weary, 
and thought she could sleep. She 
had not slept soundly since the 
evening in the studio. She had un- 
dergone intense emotion. She had 
made a violent struggle, and her body 
was as w.eary as her mind. She was 
nearly stupid now from the blessed 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


95 


reaction of grief. Her nerves were 
absolutely numb from overwork. 
She felt as if she had really gotten 
into a blessed haven of rest, an en- 
chanted atmosphere, full of healing 
and balm. She went to bed and 
fell asleep almost instantaneously, 
counting the low thud — thud of the 
waves as they dashed on the beach 
below. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

At her dejeune tho next morning 
Henrietta handed Athalie a card 
with a few words written on it in 
pencil by Blanche B6nit, saying she 
would receive Athalie at any hour 
that might be convenient to her 
during the day. 

Athalie tied on a broad sun-hat, 
took her gloves and parasol, and 
said she would walk down on the 
beach, and go at once to the Dove’s 
Nest, whose low roof she saw glim- 
mering out from its garden of trees 
and flowers, in full view. 

“ The road is direct. Madame 
cannot miss it,” said Henrietta. 

Athalie sauntered along the 
beach. She was listless and dis- 
pirited. She sat down several times 
on bits of driftwood, and wasted 
some hours in melancholy musings, 
as she gazed blankly on the wide 
waste of waters rolling and heav- 
ing at her feet. She was a prey to 
vain longings — a yearning for the 
presence, the -sound of the voice, 
the touch of the hand of the man 
she loved so madly, whom she had 
fled from forever. 

At last, rousing herself up with 
a profound sigh, Athalie walked 
quickly forward and unlatched the 


little white gate, which opened into 
the pretty gardens of the Dove’s 
Nest. She found herself in a large 
inclosure, shaded with forest-trees, 
carpeted with well-kept green grass. 
Little winding paths were cut out 
among the trees, and strong swings, 
a see-saw- with seats fixed on the 
ends, a go-cart, and other children’s 
toys for outdoor play, were scatter- 
ed about. A tiny Manx pony was 
feeding on the tender grass of the 
lawn, and a huge Newfoundland 
dog lay basking in the glorious sun- 
shine. Athalie felt a little nervous 
at the sight of the dog, but seeing 
a bell-handle near the gate, she re- 
traced her steps and gave it a strong 
pull. The bell tinkled, and the dog 
lifted up his head for an instant at the 
sound, then buried his nose again 
between his huge paws. He was 
evidently not ferocious. As the bell 
ceased to sound, the hall door of the 
long, low cottage opened and a lady 
advanced towards the yard gate. 
Athalie had time to take a minute 
survey of her before she reached 
the spot where she awaited her 
coming. She was about Athalie’s 
height and near the same age. She 
was dressed in a gown of plain, soft, 
white linsey, made rather short, 
showing neat ankles, and feet shod 
with black kid slippers. The gown 
was made high in the throat and 
long sleeved. A white linen collar, 
tied with a black cravat, gave a 
finish to the throat, and long white 
linen cuffs reached from each small 
wrist to the elbow on the arms. Her 
golden hair, which must have curled 
and been very abundant, was cut 
short, and brushed up on the tem- 
ples and brow in natural flat curls, 
which were barely visible under the 
narrow fluted frill of a white close 
cambric cap, which was tied under 


96 


A SO UTHERN VILLE G GIA TUBA. 


her chin in a large widow’s bow of 
wide muslin. But the face ! Atha- 
lie stood transfixed by its beaming 
beauty. The complexion was that 
of a fine lily, with the faintest touch 
of rose on the cheeks and chin. The 
features were good, delicate, and 
pure/but it was the expression of 
the brow and eye and smiling 
mouth that was entrancing, the face 
was so calm and serene, and the 
lovely smile so radiant. It seemed 
as if there was a halo of innocence 
and chastity playing about the 
golden head with its snow-white cap. 

She advanced to Athalie with 
both hands extended, and in a voice 
like a soft, low flute note, she said, 

“ Ch&re madame, Rosalthe bids 
me receive and embrace you as her- 
self. Be welcome 1” Putting her 
arms around Athalie, she kissed her 
first on one cheek, then on the other, 
French fashion. 

Athalie returned the embrace 
warmly. 

“ Blanche Benit ! truly the bless- 
ed Blanche 1” she said. “ You look 
as if * your very presence might 
bring healing,’ as Rosalthe said.” 

“ Did Rosalthe say so ?” asked 
Madame Benit, with a pleased smile 
and a slight blush of gratification. 
“Ah, she is a flatterer 1 You will 
know me for yourself, I fear. But 
come in 1” 

Athalie walked by her side. 
Blanche still held her by one hand, 
as if she was leading a child. 

“ Then,” said Blanche, “ tell me 
of Rosalthe. She is well and happy 
with her gay friends ? We miss 
her so much 1 We look forward 
impatiently for her coming to the 
maisonnette. But she never comes 
till the first of June, then she stays 
with us till November. Her coming 
makes the great festival of the year 


to us 1 Go aw 7 ay, Beppo 1” to the 
dog, who had slowly risen, yawrned 
and walked to them, putting up his 
noble head to be caressed. Atha- 
lie patted his head, and the dog 
w 7 agged his tail. Blanche smiled. 
“You like dogs ? So do I. We 
Acadians love animals, and are said 
to have peculiar power over them, 
especially over dogs and horses. 
This is the house pet. I don’t keep 
small dogs, for fear of their being 
cross to my children, but they all 
love Beppo 1” 

Blanche had led Athalie across 
the vine-shaded veranda into the 
hall of her cottage. It was very 
simply furnished with furniture made 
of stained w 7 ood, plain settees and 
chairs, and tables of the same. They 
looked as if made by the village 
carpenter, so plain and unadorned 
was the fashion of their framing, 
but each settee and chair w 7 as nicely 
cushioned with crimson covers on 
them, and also on the tables. On 
one table stood a vase with a mag- 
nificent bouquet of flowers — some 
hot-house flowers. Blanche lifted 
the bouquet out of the vase, dried 
the ends of the stems from their 
lingering drops of pure water, and 
giving it to Athalie, said, “ Receive 
the greetings of my children in 
these flowers gathered for you. 
Soyezla bien venue, cliere madame /” 

Athalie pressed Blanche’s hand, 
and lifted the flowers to her lips. 
Blanche said then, opening a door 
at the side, 

“Will yon enter here? This is 
the only salon we have. It is the 
play-room of my children.” 

Athalie stepped forward into the 
large, well-lighted room, one whole 
side of which was glazed in windows 
opening down to the floor. This 
side looked out into the garden. 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


97 


“ I think sunlight and air so in- 
valuable for children, especially sick 
ones,” said Blanche Benit. In each 
corner of the room was a large case, 
filled with flowers, blooming, and in 
fine order. Blanche said, pointing 
to them, 

“Your flowers came thence. Each 
child has its own pot of flow- 
ers in the cases, which it watches 
with great interest and delight, and 
each one pulled his own flower this 
morning to form your bouquet.” 

The floor had no carpet, but it 
was clean and well waxed. There 
were two fireplaces in the room, 
defended by close wire fenders. 
There were bright fires burning in 
these, and the children were grouped 
near them, though the room was 
comfortably warm throughout. At 
one end of the room a colored 
girl sat sewing on some child’s 
clothes, rocking a cradle with her 
foot. A sleeping child lay in the 
cradle. A poor, little, thin, pinched 
face it had, but it lay quite peace- 
fully now. 

“It has been very sick, chronic 
effects after having had measles in 
the city,” said Blanche Benit, “ but 
it is getting better in this pure, salt 
air, and with the aid of a salt bath. 
I hop® it will soon be quite well.” 

Children of all sizes and ages were 
in the two groups. Athalie counted 
fifteen little suffering mortals who 
bore the sad aspect of illness and 
poverty on their pale faces. They 
were sitting about two ladies who 
wore the same costume as that of 
Blanche Benit, except the widow’s 
cap. These ladies wore their own 
hairplainly folded about their heads. 
They were pleasant, but homely- 
looking women, evidently French, 
by their features and complexion. 
One of them spoke English, with a 
7 


strong accent, however, to a girl 
of six, who was lying in a small go- 
cart by her side, watching eagerly 
the process of manufacturing a new 
doll’s dress, which the lady seemed 
very busy about, and almost as 
much interested in as the children; 
the doll, quite a large one, lay on 
the floor at the lady’s feet. She 
was telling the children a fairy story, 
as she worked at the doll’s dress. 

A boy not far off was hammering 
some blocks of wood, by the aid of 
a few tacks, into what he called a 
“house and a table for the doll.” Two 
larger boys were playing dominoes 
in a corner, another had a humming- 
top, and some more had marbles. 

“ I believe,” said Blanche, “ it is 
very essential, in treating children 
for disease, to keep them amused 
and cheerful as possible. So some- 
times we are rather noisy here, but 
we are always polite. Stop ham- 
mering for a few minutes, Frederic, 
dear !” 

The child ceased instantly, and 
laid his small hammer down. 

“ He has hip disease,” said 
Blanche, “ but he uses his arms 
bravely. He will be a great silver- 
smith or carpenter some day. N'est 
ce pas , mon Fr6d6ric ?” 

The boy smiled, and looked up 
hopefully in Blanche’s face. 

“ He suffers much, mon brave 
gargon ,” ^,id Blanche, laying her 
hand tenderly on the child’s head. 

“ But the mother Blanche is good 
to Frederic,” said the smiling boy. 
“ It is nicer here than the city. I 
do not like the city.” 

The little girl was partially para- 
lyzed, Blanche said, that for whom 
the doll was being dressed. And so 
she went on through the affecting 
catalogue of childish sickness and 
misery. Every child was a sufferer 


93 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


in that room, some hopelessly af- 
flicted. But they were all happy for 
that moment. Blanche led Athalie 
out of the play-room into the large 
dormitory, with its twenty little 
cribs, each covered with a snowy 
counterpane, and havingits one small 
down pillow. At the two ends were 
larger beds adorned in like manner. 

“ One of the beds is mine,” said 
Blanche Benit, “ and the other is 
occupied by one of the ladies who 
assist me in caring for the children.” 
She opened a door near the bed 
she designated as her own, and 
showed Athalie a room surrounded 
with clothes-presses and chests of 
drawers for the linen of the house- 
hold. Adjoining this was a small 
dressing-room, simple as the rest of 
the establishment in its furnishing, 
which Blanche said was “ her own 
little apartment. Each of the ladies 
had a similar one.” 

“ Now,” said Blanche, “ you have 
seen all of my housfe except the 
kitchen and offices, and the infirma- 
ry, which I keep on the 'other side 
of the house. I have only two very 
sick children to-day: One mon pe- 
tit bossu, Michel Bondrot, who 
has disease of the spine, and has 
dreadful attacks of convulsions from 
it. He was very sick all night, but 
is better now. He is an angel of 
patience and goodness. And the 
other a child in fever frq|n an ulce- 
rated arm.” 

The infirmary was opposite the 
dormitory, but had fewer beds in it. 
It was warm, and the light came in 
shaded through coarse linen cur- 
tains of dark color. It was car- 
peted with thick rag carpeting, and 
Blanche’s footstep fell light as a 
snowflake as she entered the door. 

“ I have put thick straw beneath 
the carpet to deaden the sound,” 


she said. “ Children need dim light 
and silence when very sick; they are 
so nervous.” 

Blanche led Athalie -to the bed 
where the child lay with fever. She 
was asleep. Blanche touched her 
forehead lightly. It was wet with 
the soft dew of perspiration. 

“ The fever * is passed off, Dieu 
merci /” said Blanche. “ Sister Cor- 
nelia, please give her the drink I 
prepared when she wakes.” Another 
lady, sitting sewing near by, nodded 
her head. She, too, bore the cos- 
tume of the Order of the Mbre 
Blanche. 

Blanche bent over the couch of 
the other patient with infinite ten- 
derness. 

“ Mon pauvre enfant ! mon petit 
fils ! brave gar^on 1 vous vous sen- 
tez mieux, mon Michel ?” 

Blanche’s voice was soft as a coo- 
ing dove over its young one. 

“ Ma mhre Blanche, ma bonne 
mere Blanche,” whispered the small 
pale lips of the child she bent 
over, and the boy put out a feeble 
little hand as if seeking for Blanche’s. 
Blanche kissed the little hand, and 
took it in hers. When she turned 
to Athalie there were tears of ten- 
derness in her eyes. 

“ He has been so ill,” she said. 
Athalie was much affected. She 
felt her own eyes growing moist. 
She had been completely carried 
away by all she had seen. The 
fountains of compassion, of materni- 
ty, which lie deep in every woman’s 
heart, had been stirred up, and her 
whole soul swelled within her as she 
stood beside Blanche and looked in- 
to the face of “ Letty Tilnev’s son,” 
for she knew it was he without ques- 
tion. The child lay huddled up 
against his soft pillows, his head 
buried in his breast, his breathing 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


99 


still labored from the violence of the 
convulsions he had had during the 
past night, but it was a sweet face 
that turned itself a little upwards, 
and large dreamy brown eyes lifted 
themselves to look at Athalie. The 
eyes were wells of light, tender and 
soft. The child looked at her 
steadily. He seemed pleased with 
her appearance, and he smiled as 
he saw the bouquet of flowers in her 
hand. 

“ Michel gave you the white 
roses,” he said. “ Pretty lady, is 
Rosalthe coming ?” 

“ He is very fond of Rosalthe,” 
said Blanche; “he never forgets 
her.” 

“Rosalthe will come in the spring, 
Michel,” said Athalie. “ She sent 
me to see you now, because she 
could not come herself.” 

The child seemed content. He 
held out his trembling hand to 
Athalie. 

“Pretty lady,” he said, “kiss 
Michel.” 

Athalie bent over the child, and 
kissed him on the forehead and upon 
his small sweet mouth. Hot tears 
fell from her eyes as she did it, and 
a vow rose from her heart and was 
registered on high. Athalie was 
safe. She had sworn never willingly 
to meet Col. Yon Lingard so long 
as she was the wife of another man. 
The sight of the poor child had 
finished Rosalthe’s work. Rosalthe 
was a wise, wise woman. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Athalie stayed with la Mere 
Blanche and her children until after 


sunset. She waited till she saw the 
children at their comfortable but 
simple dinner in the warm refectory, 
about the round table with its twenty 
high-seated chairs, some of which 
were softly cushioned for the sup- 
port of the weakly backs and tender 
arms. Blanche and the ladies waited 
upon the children, and fed those 
unable to feed themselves. Athalie 
tied on one of Blanche’s large white 
aprons and drew a pair of deep 
cuffs over her silk sleeves, and she, 
too, assisted Blanche to serve the 
children. They had good nourish- 
ing food, and plenty of it, with a 
nice apple pudding for dessert. 
Oranges and bananas were the fruits 
given to them ; they grew in the 
gardens, and were had for the gath- 
ering. After the children had been 
fed, and their pinafores taken off*, 
they were left under the surveillance 
of the colored girl and one of the 
ladies for awhile, and Blanche, Ath- 
alie, and the other three ladies had 
their dinner in a small room adjoin- 
ing the refectory. They had the 
same sort of food as the children, 
except that they had a bottle of 
light claret wine added to their din- 
ner and a cup of black coffee after 
it. Athalie listened to the children’s 
evening hymn at sunset, and the 
simple chanting of the Lord’s Prayer 
by the Mother Blanche and her as- 
sistants. It was the only religious 
service of the establishment at sun- 
rise and sunset to sing the child’s 
hymn and chant the Lord’s Prayer. 
Then Athalie kissed Blanche and 
told her “ good-bye” for that night. 
She walked home full of thought. 
She had been carried ouPof herself 
into the vast world of suffering 
which she had heretofore ignored 
entirely. Her own life and aims 
seemed so paltry now, when she con- 


100 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA . 


trusted them with Blanche Benit’s. 
“I am not worthy of health and 
life I” she said to herself. The next 
morning she returned to the Dove’s 
Nest, complaining of feeling lonely 
at the maisonnette. She asked 
Blanche if she could not. make room 
and work for her amongst her chil- 
dren for the few weeks she had to 
remain. Blanche laughingly assent- 
ed, but she said, “Athalie must put 
off her silk gowns. She would spoil 
them in waiting upon and nursing 
the sick little ones.” She would 
loan her “ one of her own linsey 
gowns and aprons to wear.” 

“And the cap, too, Blanche?” 
said Athalie, gayly. “ The cap, 
too, mind 1” 

“ Yes, and the cap, too ; but what 
will you do with this mass of radiant 
hair ?” said Blanche, touching Ath- 
alie’s magnificent chevelure. 

“ 1 shall plait it in two long Chi- 
nese tails down my back,” laughed 
Athalie, “and set the cap over it.” 

And so she did. The children 
were all much amused at the trans- 
formation in Athalie, and little 
Michel Bondrot, to whom she had 
shown great favor, clapped his 
hands and called her his jolie 
nouvelle maman. Athalie was 
fairly installed in all the interests, 
wearinesses, joys, and fatigues of 
her new office. It did her a great 
deal of good. The fever of her 
heart was cooled. All that was 
pure and womanly in her was being 
developed and drawn out. The 
emanations of these children’s pure 
souls and the sight of their suffering 
bodies produced emotions which 
were all true and natural. The 
stimulus of her artificial hotbed life 
in society began to die out. 

“ Blanche,” said Athalie, one 
evening when they were sitting to- 


gether, after the children had had 
their suppers and were being un- 
dressed and put to bed by the ser- 
vants, under the superintendence of 
the ladies, whom Blanche called 
her “sisters” — “Blanche, I wish 
you would tell me the story of your 
life.” 

Blanche was occupied as usual, 
for when not actively engaged her 
fingers were not idle. She was knit- 
ting socks and woollen shirts for the 
children. She had even set Athalie 
to work with her crochet needle at 
little sacques for the girls’ use. All 
of M’lle Henrietta’s knitting was 
done for the children, too. Blanche 
made everybody work about her. 
The little Michel alone was allowed 
to stay near Blanche until she was 
ready to put him to bed herself. 
The little fellow sat propped up in 
his chair on wheels. He was busy 
drawing on a transparent slate fig- 
ures of men and animals. He was 
very much amused with his work, 
and every now and then would call 
upon the “ Mother Blanche,” or “ la 
petite maman” as he now fancifully 
termed Athalie, to look at a chef 
d’ceuvre. 

“ I think Michel will be a painter, 
a great, illustrious painter, some 
day,” said Blanche tenderly, look- 
ing at a figure he held out for her 
to see. The little fellow’s lustrous 
eyes sparkled. The prophecy pleas- 
ed him. 

“ I will paint the Dove’s Nest and 
the Mother Blanche, and la petite 
maman , and Rosalthe, too 1” he 
said, nodding his head sagaciously, 
“ when I grow strong and can 
walk, and I can learn from Rosal- 
the. She knows how.” 

“Please God, you shall,” said 
the mother Blanche. 

“ My story,” she continued— then 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G G1A TURA. 


101 


after a pause, “ well, Athalie, it is 
not much to tell. I was born near 
here, on my father’s plantation, for 
I am an Acadian. I was brought 
up near Rosalthe. We were much 
together, and she always had great 
influence over me. I married Edou- 
ard Benit, and went to live in New 
Orleans. I adored my husband. 
He was my light, my joy, my life ! 
He was worthy of the devotion 
with which he inspired me. He 
loved me very tenderly, and we 
were very happy. We were young, 
passably rich, and healthy, and we 
had two lovely children. I used 
often to pity poor Rosalthe, whose 
husband was so feeble and consump- 
tive. Ah 1 we do not know how 
suddenly trouble falls 1 My husband 
took the pernicious fever. I took 
the infection from him. My whole 
household was ill with this plague. 
I awoke from my delirium to find 
my husband and my children dead 
and buried. I don’t see why God 
spared me. I relapsed into my de- 
lirium, and I was crazy, they told 
me, for six months. When I recov- 
ered my senses and was allowed to 
go out, I spent all my days at the 
tombs of my husband and children. 
I would go there at dawn, as soon 
as the gates of the cemetery were 
opened, and I would remain till 
they were closed. I would lie 
there, between the graves, in a 
lethargy of grief and despair. No 
one could console me. I would 
listen to nothing. Rosalthe was 
abroad travelling with her husband. 
I did not know she had returned. I 
should not have cared if I had 
known it, I was so indifferent to 
everything! I cared for no one. One 
day I was sitting stupidly at my 
graves, when I felt a hand on my 
shoulder, and looking up I saw Ro- 


salthe. She was nearly weeping, 
but she spoke to me sternly. I did 
not speak to her, nor even salute 
her. She took hold of my arm, and 
put her other arm around my waist 
and lifted me to my feet. She is 
very strong. 

“ She said, * Blanche Benit, 
come with me. You have work to 
do. You must sit here no longer !’ 
and she began to draw me away 
with her. She hurried me down 
the pathway, and made me get into 
a carriage she had in waiting. I 
did not resist. I sat there stupid. 
The carriage rolled away with us, 
square after square. At last it 
stopped. Rosalthe got out. ‘Come, 
Blanche 1’ I followed her, not know- 
ing what else to do. It was the 
Foundlings’ Hospital, and there 
were many children sick there then. 
Rosalthe led me in among the chil- 
dren. There was a baby lying in 
the cradle, a baby about the age of 
mine — my darling Jeannie. It had 
flaxen hair and blue eyes like Jean- 
nie’s. It was crying bitterly. Ro- 
salthe stooped down and took the 
baby up and laid it in my arms. 

“ ‘ It has no mother, Blanche 1 
These children have no one to care 
for them, save from charity. God 
has taken your little ones to himself, 
but he has left you all these. See, 
Blanche !’ 

“ I pressed the infant to my 
heart, and burst into tears. After 
that I only went once on Sunday 
afternoons to visit my graves; the 
rest of the days I spent at the Hos- 
pital. Then Rosalthe proposed to 
me to let her fit up this old farm- 
house, where I could take some of 
the most delicate of the children 
who could not get well in the hot 
city. The officers of the hospital 
were very glad to let me take them. 


102 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


So Rosalthe fitted this place as you 
see it, and I came here. At first I 
had only a few children, but gradu- 
ally I got twenty, and now I gen- 
erally have as many as that. Then 
I got these ladies to help me. They 
are Acadians, too, and I pay them 
a small salary. I use my own 
means, and what I lack Rosalthe 
supplies. I have been here now 
ten years. Even during the war I 
was not disturbed. No one comes 
this far out of the world. I have 
become contented — even happy- — in 
my work. I never forget my dar- 
lings, who are with God, but I take 
care of God’s children here. It is 
not a very great deal ! Only a 
mite of woman’s work; but it has 
saved my reason, if not my life, and 
many little children have gone back 
strong and well from here who 
would have died, or remained 
wretched invalids in the city. I 
think I average ten a year who are 
sent back well to the city hospital.” 

“But, Blanche, is it not a trial 
for you to nurse these children well, 
and then to send them away from 
you and receive strangers in their- 
place ?” 

“ Yes, it is, oftentimes ; but it is 
best for the children, when they are 
strong and well. They have advan- 
tages of learning in the city which I 
cannot give them, and then when 
they grow older they have openings 
in life which I could not give them. 

I am not . learned, nor have I time, 
nor would it be well, to teach sick 
children ; therefore, i teach them 
nothing except to be good and obe- 
dient, and to play, and get well.” 

“And to love,” said Athalie. 

“ Yes,” replied Blanche, with her 
beaming smile, “ and to love. But 
I keep some, who are incurable : 
my poor Sylvie, who is paralyzed ; 


and mon petit bossu ,” laying her 
hand on little Michel’s head; “he 
will never leave the mother 
Blanche.” 

“Ah, non, jamais,” said the boy, 
looking up with a brilliant smile. 
“ I shall never be sent away, on ac- 
count of this,” and he put his little 
hand on his humped back. “ That 
is good !” 

Athalie turned her head away to 
dash off a moisture which gathered 
over her eyes at this motion of the 
child. 

Blanche kissed him. 

Athalie spoke to Blanche in En- 
glish, which Michel did not under- 
stand. 

“Blanche, do you think it right 
to speak so of his affliction, and to 
call him by that name — the little 
hunchback ?” 

“ Yes,” said Blanche ; “ it is bet- 
ter for him to grow accustomed to 
the thought used in words of endear- 
ment than to hear it, as he must in 
after life, as a term of monstrosity, 
if not of contempt.” 

“ Oh, Blanche, how wise you are 1 
the wisdom of the serpent and the 
harmlessness of the dove,” cried 
Athalie. 

“ That comes from living with 
little children all the time,” said 
Blanche, seriously. “ One learns 
so much from them.” 

Athalie smiled. 

“ How noble Rosalthe is !”said she. 

“ Yes, indeed she is,” exclaimed 
Blanche, warmly. 

“A woman can do so much for 
other women when she wills it,” re- 
joined Athalie. 

“ I must put Michel to bed,” said 
Blanche. “Come, my darling, my 
good, patient little bossu , kiss la 
petite maman, and put by the beau- 
tiful drawings for to-morrow.” 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


103 


“Oh, love! oh, tenderness of 
wofnan! how omnipotent !” thought 
Athalie as Blanche disappeared, 
dragging the little wheeled chair 
with its suffering contents into the 
dormitory. 

Directly she heard Blanche’s sweet 
voice rising from the dormitory, 
while little, feeble, shrill children’s 
voices tried to sing with her, tremu- 
lously following her leading : — 

“ Saviour, who, in Bethlehem’s manger, 
Laid thine infant head to sleep, 

O’er the child, the sick, the stranger, 
Send thine angels watch to keep. 

Give us, softly, rest and slumber ; 

Cool our veins from fever’s heat. 

While our simple prayers we number, 
Breathe on us a blessing sweet.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Athalie had been three weeks 
with Blanche Benit. Interested 
in the little incidents of every day, 
she had almost lost sight of the outer 
world. She was reminded of it,, 
however, by the weekly package of 
letters which was forwarded to her 
by Mrs. Dulany, who faithfully ful- 
filled her promise of writing to Ath- 
alie full accounts of the world she 
had quitted. She now received a 
letter from her husband, command- 
ing her to rejoin him in the follow- 
ing week in New Orleans. She 
read it, and laid it aside. Then she 
broke the seal of Mrs. Dulany’s 
lengthy epistle. She wrote : — 

“ My dear Athalie : 

“ I am so glad to see from your 
letters that you have derived all the 
good I thought you would from the 
society of la mbre Blanche and her 
children. She has precisely the 


same effect on me as you describe 
her influence affects you. I need 
not tell you, my Athalie, how often 
and how tenderly you are in my 
thoughts ; how many earnest prayers 
I breathe for your strengthening and 
your peace of mind. We all speak 
of you frequently. My guests now 
begin to scatter. The gentlemen 
(including Arthur [to Emma’s in- 
tense anxiety] and Col. Von Lin- 
gard, also, who was considered well 
enough to join the expedition) have 
returned from a trip on the Louis 
d’Or to the Indian Nation. They 
hunted and shot and fished, and have 
come back laden with trophies — 
antlers and skins and Indian bas- 
kets — having enjoyed themselves 
greatly. Arthur, Emma, and Dan- 
dridges return to New Orleans to- 
morrow. Conrad and Sophie are 
announced as fiances . He has re- 
ceived permission from her parents. 
Ellen has flirted Louis Stilman, and 
is now apparently epris of Sam 
Lawson, who followed her here. He 
is a sentimental youth, with brown 
locks, who plays the guitar and sings 
— not to be mentioned in the same 
breath with our noble Louis, so 
manly and true. But Louis is too 
impassive and silent ever to be a 
favorite with ordinary women. I 
think he feels Ellen’s desertion, but 
he is wordless as an Indian. 

“ And now, my Athalie, to speak 
upon the matter nearest to you, I 
will not conceal from you that, 
had it not been for me, Col. Von 
Lingard would have sought you, or 
at least endeavored in some w f ay to 
communicate with you. I discov- 
ered this ; and one day, recently, I 
sought an opportunity, and, acting 
for you as I would for my owm 
child, Athalie, I frankly spoke to 
him on this subject. He is a noble 


104 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA . 


man — worthy of your esteem and 
true regard. He was evidently much 
surprised and affected at what I said 
to him. He did not pretend to con- 
ceal his love of you, or his intention 
to seek you, if possible. He had 
heard of your domestic unhappi- 
ness, and, strange fancy ! — those 
Germans have such strange ideas, 
you know — he seemed to think it 
possible to persuade you to quit 
your husband ; to go to Indiana ; 
to remain there six months, and take 
advantage of the lax law of divorce 
of that State, and then to marry 
him at the end of the year. I told 
him that was an impossibility; for 
you, thouglf not a strictly religious 
person, were a churchwoman, and 
therefore regarded marriage as a 
sacrament. He still argued that he 
thought he might remove all your 
‘ prejudices .’ We talked ’a long 
time. I convinced him at last that 
he could probably render you very 
miserable ; that he might be power- 
ful enough to induce you to listen 
to him ; but that, knowing you as I 
did, it would be at the price of your 
self-respect, and consequent self- 
reproach and eternal wretchedness. 
He wept at what I said. In fine, 
after much entreaty, he promised 
‘ on his honor’ not to try to see you, 
but to go out of the country. He 
is going back home. Louis Stilman 
is going with him — he says, ‘ to hunt 
wild boars in the Hartz Mountains.’ 
I have become much attached to 
Col. Yon Lingard, and shall see 
him ^ go with regret; but it is best 
-so. My Athalie, the laws of moral- 
ity lie at the very basis of man’s 
social life and happiness. Like all 
the eternal laws of harmony and life, 
they press sometimes hardly on indi- 
viduals. We make so many mis- 
takes. But in these cases the indi- 


vidual must rise up to the highest 
plane of self-immolation, for the 
good of the race. One must emu- 
late our Lord, and be willing to 
suffer for the welfare of the whole. 
Believe me, my Athalie, the fine joy, 
the delicious exaltation, one feels in 
such an heroic offering upon the 
altar of God, for the love of man, is 
greater than any brief excitement of 
delirious gratification of natural pas- 
sion. I demand of you, Athalie, in 
the name of womanhood and social 
chastity, this sacrifice of yourself. I 
know you will make it. 

“I do not profess, my Athalie, to 
be a woman without preferences, but 
I say boldly, I am a woman without 
prejudices. I do not, therefore, 
speak to you in the usual technical 
or cant phrases about the ‘ holiness 
of the marriage tie, and religious 
duty, &c.,’ though I feel the weight 
of these obligations profoundly. I 
say this, my friend, married as you 
were, and to the man you were 
joined to, in your ignorance, your 
youth, your beauty, I say it was, it 
is, a dreadful sacrifice. And that 
you should, with the passionate wo- 
man’s heart that you have, learn at 
some time in your life what love is, 
that I recognize as natural, nay, as 
even inevitable. I do not reproach 
you. I sympathize with you. I 
pity you from the depths of my deep- 
est tenderness. The man you love 
hopelessly is worthy of your esteem. 
Rejoice for that, my Athalie, that 
you have not loved unworthily or an 
unworthy object. But I believe 
profoundly that woman owes all, or 
most of her present liberty and social 
influence to monogamy, to the con- 
servation and respect of the laws of 
Christian marriage. Passion, my 
Athalie, is but a brief delirium. 
The tender friendship and confidence 


1 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


105 * 


which build themselves up atom by 
atom in the daily intercourse and 
mutual dependence of the husband 
and his one wife cover this Chris- 
tian land with happy homes, with 
peace, with content, with virtue. 
The woman who betrays her mar- 
riage vow, under any circumstances , 
strikes a blow at the happiness and 
honor of her whole sex. It is the sin 
against womanhood that makes the 
crime of such conduct. God, who is 
so merciful, might forgive, but the 
woman who follows her own head- 
long passions drives a dagger into 
the heart of every other woman. She 
robs her sex of its rights, of its puri- 
ty, its holiness in the eyes of man. 
She destroys the ideal of woman- 
hood. It is the worst sort of murder. 
It is murder of the spirit of the high- 
est, not only in herself, but in the 
man who receives her, in the man 
she forsakes, in all men’s hearts, in 
all women’s consciences. It is lese 
de corps , if I may coin a word. 
It saps the foundations of the 
temple of family life. It would be 
better for you to be burnt at the 
martyr’s stake, my Athalie, than do 
this thing. No woman can live, or 
has a right to live for herself alone, 
but for all women especially, and 
then for all the world. And as for 
the brief joy, the fleeting delirium of 
gratified passion, I do not deny, my 
Athalie, that it is a joy to love and 
to be beloved, but, dear, the bitter- 
ness would come after, and truest 
joy and the most lasting is in doing 
right. I do not think lightly of you, 
my dear, because you have found 
you were but a woman, with a wo- 
man’s feeble, loving heart. I love 
you better ; but even as a fractured 
limb is the stronger for its knitting 
where it was broken, so you must be 
the stronger because you have been 


weak, because you have been 
tempted. Look at this thing in 
the bitter light of others’ expe- 
rience 1 Should you ever marry 
this man, how long would his love, 
for which you sacrifice everything, 
be yours? A year, perhaps. Nothing 
is permanent but what is pure 1 The 
best love of few men can bear the 
trial of entire possession. Satiety 
comes, it must come to man. It is not 
so with woman, most mercifully not 
so, else how could woman bear her 
lot of necessary pain and mere phy- 
sical suffering ? Any good woman 
loves still more and more the man 
for whom she suffers, the father of 
her children. But unless the bond 
which fastens the man is built upon 
positive esteem and faultless purity, 
Athalie, it perishes inevitably. The 
man may be held by his honor, but 
not by his love. A woman so proud 
as you, so tender as you, would re- 
pudiate that cold bond. You would 
free any man from it scornfully, even 
while your poor heart broke. If 
your heart must break, let it break 
in the path of right. Die, my 
Athalie, but be true to yourself. 

“ My tenderest love to Blanche 
and the little Michel. God forever 
bless and sustain you, my Athalie ! 

“ Your friend, 

“ Rosalthe.” 

Athalie wept as she read this let- 
ter. She kissed it. “ I will be true, 
Rosalthe,” she murmured, but her 
tears flowed abundantly. 


CHAPTER XXY. 

Two months after Athalie’s re- 
turn to her own home in New Orleans 


106 


A SOUTHERN V1LLEGGIATURA. 


Emma Lalande wrote to Mrs. Du- 
lany. 

11 New Orleans. 

“ My dear Rosalthe : 

“ I have not written you for several 
weeks because I have been so mise- 
rably anxfous and occupied with Ar- 
thur. You know that after our re- 
turn Arthur consulted Drs. Stone 
and Chopin about the condition of 
his wounded leg. They examined 
it, and said, if he was willing, they 
thought they might perform an 
operation of excision, which might 
relieve it altogether. At the 
same time they did not conceal the 
risk of it from him. Arthur resolved 
to undergo it. I was dreadfully 
alarmed. I have not known an 
hour’s rest since the operation was 
performed, a month ago, until now, 
when ray darling husband is up once 
more, weak, but convalescent, and, 
thank God, will now be restored to 
health and to his former strength. 
Arthur has borne everything with 
his usual gaietede cceur } and perfect 
goodness of temper. But he is over- 
joyed at being well again, and says 
he means to wait upon me as never 
did any cavali&re servante upon his 
bella donna. Ah ! he does not know 
what a joy it is for me to wait 
upon him 1 I shall be jealous of 
his strength, I expect! Benny and 
Aunt Clemmy have been just as good 
as they could be. Benny has sat 
up night after night with Arthur, 
and Aunt Clemmy has stumped in 
every day, on her ebony cane, with 
flowers and fruits, and one of her 
best musical snuff-boxes for Ar- 
thur’s delectation. 

“You heard of Athalie’s trouble. 
Her husband, stricken with paraly- 
sis, lies perfectly helpless and almost 
dumb, and is wholly dependent upon 
Athalie’s attention for his very ex- 


istence. You know hired nurses 
are not to be trusted. Athalie meets 
her responsibilities nobly. She 
learned a good deal from Blanche 
Benit. She receives no visitors 
save her most intimate friends and 
the doctor who attends Mons. Des- 
londes. The doctor says his case is 
hopeless, but not immediately dan- 
gerous. Men live often five, ten, 
twenty years in this condition. 
Poor Athalie ! but she seems quite 
calm, and apparently has no interests 
outside of the mournful silence and 
shadow of her husband’s room. 
You know I always say exactly 
what I think ; so I think it would 
be a good thing for the Lord to take 
Monsieur Deslondes out of this 
wretched world ! Now, scold ! I 
don’t care if you do, so you continue 
to love 

“ Your m&chante 

“Emma. 

“ P. S. — Louis Stilman writes 
Arthur that he is delighted with Col. 
Yon Lingard’s home, and what the 
English call * his people.’ 

“ 2d P. S. — Benny is in {real) 
love with Arthur’s pretty cousin, 
Eugenie McLane — just out. She 
has red hair and blue eyes, but so 
pretty^” ^ ^ 

AtFalie’IHife was a changed and 
darkened life now. AsEmma wrote, 
she resolutely devoted herself to her 
half insensible husband. She never 
quitted his shadowed chamber, ex- 
cept for absolute needs of existence, 
for food, and for a breath of fresh 
air, without which she could never 
have endured the fatigue and utter 
wearisomeness of those long days of 
silent watching and the still longer 
nights. She almost forgot how 
to talk, for, except the few words 
she exchanged daily with the phy- 
sician when he came on his diurnal 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


10T 


visits, and an occasional glimpse of 
her very few intimate friends, she 
saw no one except her servants. 
Her whole life was centred on the 
half living form lying so helplessly, 
so motionless, on her husband’s bed. 

The beautiful hair was plainly 
folded back from her face ; the trail- 
ing, rustling, silken robes exchanged 
for those of more homely fabric ; 
the lovely voice was hushed ; not a 
sound broke the intense stillness of 
this childless mansion, where one lay 
dead in life, and the other stood 
barren of hope, with all life’s roses 
crushed beneath her feet. Athalie 
never asked anything about Col. 
Yon Lingard, though she knew 
Rosalthe corresponded with him. 
From the moment her husband was 
brought to her, still and convulsed 
from the paralytic stroke, Yon Lin- 
gard’s name never passed her lips, 
nor willingly did she permit the 
thought of him to come into her 
heart. It made her feel as if she 
was a murderess to think of Col. 
Yon Lingard ; and if, sometimes in 
the long night watches, the remem- 
brances of the past would come and 
force themselves unbidden on her 
reluctant mind, she would fling them 
from her with horror, murmuring 
often, “Letty Tilney 1 Letty Til- 
ney ! I must not forget you !” 

She was resolved not to become 
the slave of vain desire. That is a 
terrible, fearful slavery ! — the true 
Promethean vulture, gnawing on 
one’s very vitals. And we are such 
creatures of habit that one can do 
much by strong resolve to keep one’s 
self unfettered, and to avoid, even 
in the affections, the encouragement 
of “ a line of least resistance,” as 
Mr. Herbert Spencer calls it. It is 
a fearful struggle, that against a 
powerful passion. Many a soul goes j 


down under it — the ceaseless, ever- 
recurring fight against aching, long- 
ing love — love, which has as many 
heads as the hydra ; and when one 
lies down contented that the dragon 
is dead, crushed at last, one wakes 
to find it hissing with a hundred 
living heads, everywhere in one’s 
life, in one’s inmost soul. “A 
wounded heart, who can heal?” 
The Maker of the heart can, and 
constant employment out of one’s 
self ; constant living in the life of 
others ; ceaseless occupation, phy- 
sical as well as mental. These help 
to give tone and strength to the 
pierced heart, so that, in time, 
gradually peace and calm come to 
the most tempestuous passion. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 

Three years had passed since the 
first villeggiatura at the Wilderness. 
Once more the holly branches shone 
in the vases, and brilliant fires were 
flashed back from the mirrors on the 
walls. 

Mrs. Dulany’s guests had not yet 
assembled in the drawing-room be- 
fore dinner. Rosalthe had gathered 
all of our old acquaintances about 
her: Conrad and Sophie Stilman, 
with their little daughter ; and Ar- 
thur and Emma, and their infant 
son; and Benny Dandridge, with his 
bride ; Aunt Clemmy, with her ebony 
cane and her resplendent diamonds 
— all a little the worse for wear. 
Ellen LawSon and her husband had 
been prevented coming, but Louis 
Stilman was expected that day, and 
another friend whose name Mrs. 
Dulany had not mentioned to any 


108 


A SOUTHERN VILLE G GIA TURA. 


one yet. And lastly, Athalie Des- 
londes, in her light mourning — for 
she had laid aside her bombazine 
crape and was wearing silks — pur- 
ple and black, with white trimmings ; 
her husband had been dead more 
than one year. Athalie had been 
faithful and good to him, and had 
really grown to care more for him 
in his helplessness than she could 
have once deemed possible. She 
really wept for the object of her ten- 
der care, whose image, forlorn and 
helpless, had entirely replaced that 
of the tyrannical master before whose 
frown she had once so trembled. 
She had never heard anything of 
Col. Yon Lingard ; she never asked 
anything about him, and no one 
spoke of him. 

Rosalthe stopped at her door, as 
she passed by, and flung in a hand- 
ful of white roses. 

“ Wear your purple silk, and put 
these roses in your hair, Athalie,” 
she said, popping her head within 
the door of Athalie’s dressing-room. 

Athalie smiled — a faint, weary 
smile. 

“Pshaw! what does it matter 
what I wear ? But, of course, if you 
wish it, Rosalthe. I’d rather have 
la m&re Blanche’s white linsey 
frock, though ; but you are not will- 
ing for me to assume it. Yet I 
think I shall, eventually.” 

“ No, you have other work iu this 
world.” 

“ I wish you would tell me what , 
then, and stop speaking enigmati- 
cally, Rosalthe.” 

“ Well, I will tell — let me see — 
to-morrow, if you ask me,” said 
Mrs. Dulany, with a smile. 

“ It’s a promise, mind !” called 
out Athalie after the disappearing 
head. 


“ Tres lien ,” and Mrs. Dulany 
went off singing, 

“ The church hells are ringing, the village 
is gay ; 

And Lilia is decked in her bridal array. 
She’s wooed and she’s won 
By a proud Baron’s son, 

And Lilia — Lilia — Lilia’s a lady.” 

Athalie looked lovely in her pur- 
ple silk and white roses. Her face 
was not quite so radiant as formerly, 
but there was a nobler and sweeter 
expression upon it than it had worn 
before. She sauntered listlessly in 
the drawing-room. The lamps were 
not lighted. It was a fancy of Mrs. 
Dulany’s not to have the drawing- 
room brilliantly lighted until while 
she was at the dinner-table. Her 
guests always found a Rembrandtish 
chiaro oscuroof firelight in the par- 
lors when they assembled before 
dinner ; then the blaze of the dining- 
room lamps had an enlivening and 
an artistic effect. 

Athalie walked up to the fire and 
stood before it for a moment; then, 
finding herself alone, and seeing the 
piano opened invitingly, she sat 
down before it. Her fingers wan- 
dered dreamily over the keys, then 
her voice rose, and she sang in low 
half tones these words of an old 
song : — 

“ Thy name was once the magic spell 
By which my heart was bound, 

And burning dreams of light and love 
Were wakened by that sound. 

My heart beat quick when stranger 
tongues, 

With idle praise or blame, 

Awoke its deepest thrill of life, 

To tremble at thy name. 

“ Long weary years are past and o’er, 

And altered is thy brow ; 

And we who met so fondly once 
Must meet as strangers now. 

The friends of yore come round me still, 
But talk no more of thee ; 

’Twere idle e’en to wish it now, 

For what art thou to me ? 


A SOUTHERN VILLEGGIATURA. 


109 


“Yet still thy name, thy blessed name, 

My lonely bosom fills, 

Like an echo that has lost itself 
Among the distant hills ; 

Which still, with melancholy note, 
Keeps faintly lingering on, 

When the joyous sound that woke it first 
Is gone, forever gone !“ 

Athalie’s voice sank into trem- 
bling silence. She bent her head 
down on the pianoforte, and wept, 
silently. 

“Athalie! my Athalie!” She 
lifted her head with a start ; but 
before she could turn she felt a pair 
of strong arms around her, and she 
was clasped passionately to the 
breast of Ernst Von Lingard. 


It was all Rosalthe’s doing. She 
had written for him, and he had just 
come. 

This villeggiatura ended with a 
wedding. Blanche Benit wrote a 
loving letter of good wishes, and 
little Michel sent a pretty shell he 
had picked up on the beach, and a 
piece of paper on which he said he 
had drawn “a tree with Beppo un- 
der it.” Athalie put the letter and 
shell and bit of scrawled paper into 
her jewel-box, with the diamonds 
Miss Clemmy and Rosalthe and 
Emma had given her for her cor- 
beille. 




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